Freddy Krueger it is…

Trying to reach a consensus on which movie to watch can turn into an agonizing process. Indecisiveness kills the fun.

Around here, it’s pretty simple.

Observe our decision-making process in action as we sit in front of my low-tech television on a rainy L.A. night.

Daddy’s back!

Well. It’s been a strange week.
Strange?
Not sure if that’s the right word.
Unusual. Different. Kooky.

I departed from the usual me. Usually I’m outwardly focused and very and overly involved in the blogosphere’s business. Rambling, externally driven, opinions offered free of charge. It’s so David. So Phoenixism.

It was a radical departure. Radically, dude.

Departed from my usual.

I retreated. Into the darkest recesses of my soul and refused to come out all week.
Come out and play, David!

I was troubled. Although I boast of having conquered my demons, that is mostly bullshit. Compared to the average bear, perhaps, but the demons periodically stir from their slumber and fuck up my sense of peace. This week was such.

Truth be told, I didn’t feel much like writing most of the week.
It was a struggle.

I didn’t find myself much connected to the world or society.
The perceptive reader may ask, “This is you. So what’s new?”
Ah and that’s a good point. But you see, there was a difference. Though I’m not a diligent joiner, I still enjoy watching the circus that is humanity.
I’m fixated on watching and harping about things on occasion. I enjoy pitching in my very annoying or (hopefully) enlightening 2 cents. I derive pleasure from that; my solitude would drown me if it were not for the moments of revitalization I siphon from my public moments. Those moments I indulge in judging and deciphering the puzzling world.

Think of it as a gas station. Society is my gas station. Though I avoid it and generally don’t care to wait in line, once in a while I need to come out of my cubbyhole and fill ‘er up Sam. My soul. Fill ‘er up at the gas pump of society.

Last week I think some water got in my gas tank.
Fucked up the injectors.
All my cylinders weren’t firing.
To stretch that metaphor a bit more (God knows I stretch metaphors for all they’re worth), if I was a car engine, I wonder how many cylinders I would have.

I’m short. Maybe 4?
On the other hand, I’m insanely full of shit and other good stuff, so maybe I’m actually one of those Dodge 10 cylinder beasts.

So anyways, yeah, I was misfiring all week.

The roadmap shows the way:

On Valentine’s Day I posted No Service I think this is when I began to slip. The post was good, I was happy with it, but it was an idea that had been sitting in my drafts and it seemed Valentine’s Day was a fitting day to post it. Thus little thought or inventiveness went into it for it was essentially outlined already. Completing it, however, proved an elusive struggle; I was surprised it turned out as well as it did.

The next day, the 15th, I posted a new installment of the slightly demented how a soccer player from Cameroon comes to perish project. This story-writing project is kinda cool but it is also a great opportunity for me to post without really thinking. That’s not a good thing. It certainly served its purpose well last Monday.

The 16th saw me post a strangely thoughtful post The Journey Back. It was inspired by a citation I read over on Poetry of Flesh. The William Blake observation really struck home. This post was written directly by my subconscious. There was very little cognitive thought or logical arrangement. This post displayed the spot I had been in, was in, and would be, for the week.

The next day I posted A second (or third) look at those damn cell phones. This was fluff.
An example of my mind and heart at odds with my actions. It’s like the alcoholic who lapses into a strange state where he drinks even when he is not craving a drink; drinking as a reflexive habit. Blogging can turn into such a habit if you aren’t careful. This cell phone post felt empty. It felt Twitterish but with a who lot more words.

February 18, Thursday, I began to snap out of it.
I posted There is some cussing in this post.
The gusto was returning.
It wasn’t completely back, however. Still faltering. Random and discarded traces of frustration and anger still manifested themselves in profuse swearing, so much that I even integrated that into the name of the post. But I nevertheless felt the spark return. The diatribe that issues from the chest, not from the skull.

Yesterday, the culmination.
Severely self-mortifying.
Let the pain hang out.
Wherein I tell an old friend to go fuck himself
Wow! Reinventing my post-naming system. Using the “F” word in a title. Rage, mama. Rage. Feel it!
Purge the litter. Wring out the soul, let the dirty, cloudy water run down the drain.
Hang me out to dry until the next use (or abuse).

Daddy’s back you mofo’s!