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Like a Frozen Man Like a Dog in Siberia

I was reading delicately with a swift sort of consciousness. Consuming the words almost as if I am saying them aloud, which can only be done with the best authors, and who has time for the other authors? There are too many best authors.

Inability to proceed with meritorious selection, this is what makes me a tired loser. I was broiling the fact that when I put words together, the experience is not as productive as when I read them. I imagine myself with my mouth open, standing at the side of the highway, immersed with the visions of shiny plastic things zooming by, knowing that I will always be the witness and never be a shiny plastic thing.

Then I say I need dedication to a purpose in life because lacking that, those are the times I reel for things that can end the vacuum that sucked my soul out and spat it back into my face. I’m on the side of the highway and all of the people who do not want trash in their cars are throwing cans and bottles and McDonald’s cups at me, and their aim is perfect. I wonder how they never miss at life and all I do is get smashed.

That’s a normal day. My nightmares are killer. Last night, I was stuck somewhere in my backyard in the low parts of massive mounds of dirt, pushing an artillery cannon around because the big white worms who disappear on command and then show up on the other side of town were surrounding my house, and they told me that if I stayed there, I would pay with squashed guts and other stuff happening to my skull, but if I tried to escape my house, I would be shelled until all there would be is liquid flowing slowly down the street

So I thought I might close my mouth and mix a little writing into my life and see what happens. Strap me on to one of those plastic suburban vans with my fingers pinned by the sliding doors and watch my hair fly as I take a pen with my mouth and I write a story or I write a picture or I write about the thickness of disease that is inside of my head, or best of all, I write about all of the beautiful people who have the perfect aim in life and none of the dastardly chemicals that freeze a man like a dog in Siberia.

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  1. #1 by pattisj on September 22, 2011 - 11:48 pm

    Reading is SO much easier than writing your own. But we keep practicing our craft, who knows where the path will lead?

    • #2 by Carl on September 24, 2011 - 10:53 pm

      Your words are encouraging, Patti. Thank you.

  2. #3 by Kay Camden on September 23, 2011 - 9:00 am

    Yes but writing is so much fun. And then once you get it perfect, you can become the reader and read it back to yourself.

    That line about people who don’t want trash in their cars? What a metaphor for life. My gosh you nailed it.

    • #4 by Carl on September 24, 2011 - 10:53 pm

      Thank you for commenting, Kay. I really appreciate it.

  3. #5 by Indigo Spider on September 23, 2011 - 3:33 pm

    I often felt (occasionally still do, but not as often) like a spectator watching everyone else have a wonderful life while I was nothing more than the target for flinging garbage. Yet again, another great write and was happy to see something new from you in my inbox since you don’t seem to be writing as often. Always look forward to it!

    • #6 by Carl on September 24, 2011 - 10:54 pm

      You are very kind to comment. I am comforted that you identify with the topic. You’ve obviously learned lessons I need to learn.

  4. #7 by Evelyn on September 23, 2011 - 11:12 pm

    “Inability to proceed with meritorious selection, this is what makes me a tired loser.”
    I wish that you could see that you are already the writer you want to be.
    That is my wish.

    • #8 by Carl on September 24, 2011 - 10:57 pm

      I go to write to expel these ghosts that bash me all of the time, so how could I feel good about my writing? Though it is cathartic to write, the ghosts look over my should all of the time and their voices are incredibly loud as soon as I post anything regardless of whether or not I think I might have posted something decent. You see?

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