and it is quite not by chance that we find this babbler pondering the fates of angels and demons and writers who are not read... and it is inspired by an as yet stranger stumbling across my current writings, perhaps quite randomly, as so often is the most profound of meetings or human endeavors, that i come to this place in the gardens where gibran's madman might meet beckett's godot and find mutual amusement, if not understanding, if one can possibly be had without the other... and so it goes, and yes, maybe, you are still the only one who knows...

whomever you are :)

so i wrote this next entry in the middle of the night never expecting it to be noticed and then, the comments that follow it happened... for whatever they are worth to you or anyone else, perhaps only due to the misty self-importance of four am fatigue and long term sleep-deprivation because i once again forced myself from a deep slumber just minutes ago, this time to continue laundry, a task that often lends itself to deep thought thanks to a somewhat sorded history and sometimes tenuous memory, but still a task that must be done and in the waiting time between loads, as i so often do during the waiting times, i returned to the blogging to find more comments and let them inspire me to ponder as i do, they are worth enough to me to repeat them here, time and date stamped and all...

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

classic posts come late

usually in the middle of the night when nobody is watching cuz even when i lived with lovers or best friends or maybe the one who might have been the one had we stayed together, nobody stayed awake with me (not peter, john, or james, either)... did mathew have the right idea?... whatever, until there is a bible chapter written by a woman, it's all way too sexist for me and one of the things that baffles me the most is how women suck it all down without choking cuz the chauvanist and bias is so obvious... so many wanna-be martyrs, so little common sense...

of course there was that guy who always told me that i had no common sense simply for being me, thinking as i do, and writing paragraphs like the one just above this one (wouldn't it be trippy if another paragraph or few slipped in between this and the current last one before posterity gets through reading all my many words?)...

so maybe the last post (if not paragraph) was a classic of sorts, but how many people would have to say so before it is so?... depends, aye?... for me, it's halfway there if i say so and i just might, someday (narf)...

i miss sharing... i miss caring as much as i can care (always been told i care too much, which is so sad for me... anyway,

i fell asleep right after that comma... a comma coma, perhaps... and so which paragraph was the reference made to be classic posts something left subject distracted spam mail filter ignore me wontcha please?... whatever and all that jazz, i suppose, but you might have grasped a crumb of understanding if you had been there cuz, as with most classic moments, you had to be...

there :)

Posted by candoor at 11:04 PM
Labels: cbgrin, lam, mttm, narf, sleep dep, smirk, thirst, words, writing
5 comments:

Anonymous said...

Did you ever read a book so good, that when you were finished it, you immediately started reading it again? That has only happened to me a couple of times. The first time was because the book actually started at the end of the story, so when it ended, i was at the beginning. So i wanted to make sure i had it all straight.. read it again. But the first book i read over right away was because it just was the most amazing thing i had ever read. It was like this was what writing should be.. i'm almost afraid to read it again after so many years have passed. the writer is dead and i'm older than he was when he died. gulp.

November 6, 2009 3:51 PM

candoor said...

I do vaguely recall the times when I had time to read and there are feeling-memories of reading a book i just had to start right over as i finished it and books i felt compelled to read straight through without sleep, but no specific titles come clearly to mind as that part of my mind has been long asleep in recent years...

what books, i wonder, do you recall?...

November 10, 2009 11:34 PM

Anonymous said...

wow man.. a writer that doesn't read.. but the truth is I'm not much of a reader anymore either. but I never was a serious writer. i make visual stuff. back in my heavy reading days i smoked a lot of pot. so, unless something really grabbed me, i forgot a lot of what i read. heh. but i did like kerouac, updike, thomas berger, hunter thompson, cormac mccarthy, lots of others.. Americans mostly.. mccarthy is my current favorite. i like your writing too. interesting. still thinking about it..

November 11, 2009 12:28 AM

candoor said...

in storage, between two small northwestern new york towns, there are more than ten thousand books and more than twenty thousand magazines and more than ten thousand musical recordinds and more, the remnants of the library i once accumulated and treasured and still treasure enough to pay $140 a month just to know it's there, 1600 miles away, and has been, out of sight, but seldom out of mind, for more than ten years...

i read and/or listened to almost every word...

and as brilliant and well-read as i once was, i am never surprised at my abject ignorance for the most secure truth beyond the more right i think i am, the more wrong i can be is, the more i know, the more i know how much i do not know and so i look up cormac mccarthy to discover that he is quite famous of late, what with hitting the mainstream in the form of winning an academy award for best picture (never did see that film, alas, for as much as i love film, time does not allow me to go to many and without a partner to share the experience, i do not make time these days, though i've gone to many a film alone when time was more available)...

there is a growing old burnt out cynic swallowing the youthful idealistic optimist in my head, moreso in the past decade as personal betrayals have settled upon my psyche like storm clouds that bring no rain, but dust piled high and the feeling of psychic suffocation at times and that voice, if it can be personified as a voice, snuffs out the excited chorus of cheerleaders that the reader in me used to enjoy when new, at least new to me, authors were discovered...

what still grabs my attention and somewhat excites me is science fiction, especially of the douglas adams ilk, where humans are portrayed as a backwards, self-indulgent, destructive, self-important, ignorant species hardly worth noticing by any truly intelligent species, even as a footnote in the history of the universe, but then, somewhere deep down, there is some sort of hope for redemption of a visceral (as opposed to spiritual) nature and an actualized enlightenment, which is why i remain alive in this life...

so i tell myself, primarily because you name him a current favorite, to find some time to find a book by this author, if only in the form of some pages online, for now, and read...

and for this, i thank you... for i do love the written word from both sides of the page and when less fatigues, i will be more excited about this recommendation than i am just now when i truly should be sleeping and was slipping into deep sleep but a few moments ago only to force myself awake to continue doing laundry which has been put off for weeks, but which, if not done tonight, would not be done for two more weeks and would require an expensive shopping trip rushed between stops tomorrow and the next day, for there are clothes required for softball and life that no longer can be found in my clean clothes piles...

and somehow, i find it all amusing... the human body does so become such a foul stentch if not bathed regularly... and yet, there was a time not so long ago, a time that apparently your mr mccarthey wrote about, when people routinely went for days, even weeks, without bathing, not to mention without the deodorants and perfumes and fabreezes that chemically mask human body odors these days... i wonder what that experience was like...

a final though, not a second or afterthought at all, but a casual self-depreciation from an psyche long ignored, quite battered, and perhaps starving for the slightest modicum or recognition, no less appreciation (dare we say praise?) as if some long sleeping instinct to keep an insatiable ego in check rises from the ashes like a phoenix to smile knowingly and say thank you for liking my writing...

if i took the time to truly express how much your words mean, i'd probably cry :)

mush, as in, on prancer, on dancer, as in, move along now, there's nothing to see here, as in, continue, for that is what we do, all there is to do, to continue, on and on and on...

:)

November 21, 2009 3:43 AM

. o O ( NOTES ARE THE NEW HAPPY PILL ) O o .
(just let me know you were here)