Poetic Reflections: Nothing!

That is the answer. So what is the question? What’s on my mind? I think not. There is generally some absurd notion or other ping-ponging in my head, bouncing off the inside of my skull. What’s up? More preposterous still, for there is so very much up, so very much out there, whether going on around us or dangling suspended above us in the cosmos. Is it what you’d reply prior to taking a backseat daredevil spin down a mountainside in a motorless go-cart if somebody asks, “What do you hope to gain?” We all do foolish things. As an author I remain recklessly unknown fundamentally because I believe talent and skill should speak louder than promotion, that recognition should come as a result of writing not peddling my books. Time is an enormous factor for me with everything, especially that. As a person, I try to do and be better, to grow from mistakes and not repeat them. It just seems to turn out like an upside-down cake. That fell and got smooshed. And accidentally stepped on. And had to be scraped off the floor. Oh, and then it was left out in the rain.

But in the midst of life’s little immeasurable alps and ravines, do you ever find yourself wondering: Where am I going with this? I mean, seriously. Because I ask myself that a lot. Or at least I do recently. Before, I accepted what Fate handed me with a spoonful or two of salt, sometimes sugar, and went on my merry (more likely not-so-merry) way.

Now, for some indefinable reason that I know not, it’s different . . . Unholy-moly, get-the-lead-out, do-the-Watusi different. Maybe I’ve evolved to the point where I’d like to exercise rational judgement rather than find myself swept along going with the flow — whether being a victim of some sort, or doing what’s proper, or living by the Let’s See What Happens Next philosophy.

Take it from me: If you’re used to things being topsy-turvy, in some random state of upheaval, it skews your perspective. Makes it difficult to know if you’re proceeding straight or crooked or flat-out too fast for your own good. When things fire at me too rapidly I tend to duck. I panic and flinch and cower, hide my head in the sand, burrow underground a spell, until the surface slows to a safer speed where I can think and focus . . . I like to stay focused. The blurs freak me out. And yet some blurs, the rare moments when everything seems to happen at once and go well for a change, can downright exhilarate!

Velocity isn’t the problem at present so I don’t even know why I brought it up. What’s troublesome is that I’m not in control. And for once, it isn’t the lack of control you feel when Misfortune calls your number and you’re next in line to give your subsequent pound of flesh. It’s more of an “I know what I’m doing is nuts yet I don’t really care!” situation. I can’t take the wheel, I’m too nervous to drive. I can’t convince myself to apply the brakes. I’m simply wearing my seatbelt and hanging on as the hotrod I’m in careens wildly forth.

There always has to be an eventual down-to-earth conclusion to these things, whereby the giddy cruise of circumstance must arrive at some finite base or brick wall or other assorted obstruction. A devil-may-care landslide of a ride cannot go on forever, as childhood cannot last. But while it does, I’ve been enjoying the wind in my hair.

Maybe I needed to let loose, experience the blissful abandon I’ve missed out on so much. Too soon I must get back on track and behave like I oughta. Face the pressures and complications of my world.

Who am I trying to kid? Being solemn and dignified won’t erase the craziness of my past any more than it can guarantee consistently bright tomorrows. And anyway, I love a gloomy day! I don’t want to do what’s expected or allowed! I want to do the nonpredictable and unconformist. I want to fly off the handle without a paddle and swim against the stream without a parachute! Instead of dropping out of it, I want to freefall upwards into the sky on a column of quintessential exuberance! I want to break from the mold and mildew of my boxed-in locked-down existence and live, because every precious fleeting instant flitting by is gone forever, and the next could be my last, and I’ve wasted too much time already not doing all that I am capable of while actually having fun! Not being where I truly belong, where I’d be happiest (that involves trees). It has nothing to do with success. It’s about decisions and choices. To some extent, we can determine our own fates by making the right ones.

Oh sure! the left ones refute. Except if you’re flat broke! Or broken! Or both!

I can’t argue with that logic, but I can ignore it . . .

It’s like the rush of inspiration from a feel-good movie. I’m surfing that kind of wave. I don’t want the euphoria to end. I want to remind myself daily that there is more to life than typing at a machine. But there are books to write and edit and release. There are so many uncompleted projects piled up before me that sometimes the clutter can overwhelm. I love to write, need to write. It’s a passion, part of who I am. And yet, the excruciating poignancy of the things I haven’t lived — things undone, unfelt, unshared — gets in the way and slows my steps toward progress. Does it have to be one or the other? Why can’t I have it all? That is my eternal internal struggle. The balance of Art and Life.

Maybe this is why artists must suffer. If they are too content, they would put other things first. The need to express oneself is far more urgent in pain. When truly happy, in love with life, that joy is nearly all one can think about. At least for me as a horror author, perhaps my greatest inspiration springs from torment. Although, being ecstatic and tortured together poses an exquisite clash of satisfaction battling despair.

I can create while placid, but is it my best? Might I achieve the same highs in peace as in conflict if I draw upon the past? Or is my art the reason why so many things have to go wrong? It makes a handy platitude for consoling myself. Yet I cannot concentrate any better when I am too troubled, in the thick of turmoil. Once it subsides a tad, my words sizzle out and sear the page. I reckon it’s the same with elation.

I frothily believe that not everything we do needs to make sense. At times I merely wish to be silly. Then Reality bites and a chunk is missing and life goes on. I have learned, due to my history, that sometimes wrong things happen and there’s nothing right about it. Nothing. But there are also occasions when good can arise, or was had from the bad.

As often transpires, I have arrived at entirely no conclusion in the debate of Nothingness with myself. Is it too late to retract my statement? Or am I stuck with it like an impulse purchase? Not knowing what I had in mind, what the heck I was thinking, yet here it is and I have to deal with it! Or cram it in the closet. That door has to open someday, and then I must confront an avalanche of shoved-aside huddled muddled matters. Unless one is innately good at avoiding issues and doorknobs. Which I like to think I am.

Oh wait, the impending crash came as it was bound to. The sum of Gravity plus Solidity-Squared equals Rock Bottom. It was inevitable. I ran out of distance and slope and there was nowhere to go but down because it was going nowhere. Guess I’ll have to start climbing the next hill. It’s a steep one.

Here then is some verse that might be about nothing, or may be about another thing that has nothing to do with nothing at all. Whatever it’s about, I assure you I had nothing to do with it. Or maybe I did. I admit nothing. Nothing! I say. Only that life is full of madness and folly, and your best defense is a sense of humor. In lieu of that, I suggest donning a pair of clown shoes. At least they will make you smile.