Friday, January 18, 2019

Spending forever in the clouds.

I was reading back through these recent nonsense posts, and we sound like a person who is going insane. That is only partially accurate. The real story is far more interesting. I am actually going insane while blossoming into a beautiful flower. I'm only kidding. I'm only partially kidding. Life is great.

I looked back deeper into these online writings, which have been going on more or less since 2006, and what I learned is that I haven't changed as much as I thought in the past twelve years. The fundamentals are about the same. The only difference is that I've simply gotten older and I've had more practice with my brand of self sufficiency. I understand stoicism better, and I'm less fearful across the board.

I've learned that less is better, and less than that might be better still. Many complications are optional if you are willing to write your own rule book or define your own normal. I'm not suggesting that everybody should imitate my nonsense, but at least I'm not stuck anywhere, or beating myself up too bad, or struggling to gain material assets, or fighting to fit in.

I'm lucky. I doubt I could do any of that stuff even if I wanted to, so it's an asset to me that I can't. Yes, that makes my beliefs suspiciously convenient. And if I felt like it, I could actually wave my lifestyle around like a flag of genius. What I do looks cool when you are up north facing a depressing winter. My superpower is that I'm willing to live with a film of grease and do most of my pooping at a Winn Dixie. I consider this trade fair if it fosters a better kind of crazy.

The truth is I am forever in the clouds. The truth is I am practically the luckiest person alive, and I feel guilty when I forget that.

Further Reading:

Music and sunshine and bicycles are the only real stuff. Those are the ingredients. Portions and purity don't matter much, and you can add other ingredients, but if you omit one of those three, you get scurvy.


tim joe comstock said...

Well, lad, ya seem just fine to me. I have often tried to get people to understand that crazy is painful, it hurts like a motherfucker, like a bullet to the kneecap or a thousand cuts; but not a pain on a physical level, it is the ghost pain of a missing limb or a lost loved one...

Humor helps (if you can get some) and also, or so I am told, trail mix. I myself could never afford that shit but maybe you could resort to shoplifting or meet up with a hippie chick.

Quilting is a holy pursuit and in the day the old women would sit in circles and talk, talk and quilt and I am old; I remember the front porch quilting circles and my Grandma Comstock owned a store, a kind of 7-11 of the century just passed and her store was a quilting place.

And I am 63 years old and one month ago I decided that I like my eggs over hard, with a busted yolk cooked, not runny. For sixty fucking years I have had my eggs over easy, always over easy; but not anymore.

What the hell do you make of that?

Writing, for those of our ilk, is a balm and a salvation. You have a left-handed voice when you write, and for that you should be grateful, for that you should be willing to suffer a lost limb or willing to suffer 999 cuts.

yer old pal tj

Pixy Stoneskipper said...

I appreciate your input. It's a weird world out there, which is cool. It helps to know my thoughts might resonate. You are one of maybe six folks who still read my public diary, and I wish positive blessings toward you. Now back to my weed, wine, potato chips, and cinema.

Pixy Stoneskipper said...

I hear eggs made that way can be ordered by saying "turn 'em over and step on 'em." I like that.