Another day begins. And another month, another year draws to a conclusion. After an arduous journey, an uncertain journey to a far-flung destination, another train pulls into another station.
Get off and stretch your legs.
Air out the train car. Clear out those smells of cooking and bodily functions.
And so the story begins.
I go through my notebook, the one of ideas, scribbled nonsense of theory and elucidation, of to do lists and of lists of other varieties, the notations I make to ameliorate my odyssey, insignificant as it is to everyone but me, even me to. I’m one drop in the ocean, one hair on a schnoodle, a half breed schnauzer poodle. My missus says my beard is getting too long. She says I should cut my hair. I’m starting to look like old GC, somewhere in the snow.
George Clooney, by the way is pretty clever to release a movie on Netflix a day before Christmas. Don’t tell that wasn’t planned. Just like Sting used to release a new CD just in time for Christmas stockings. I’m putting a note beside your name in my notebook.
I say to the missus, “I don’t look anything like George Clooney. He looks like me. People stop him on the street and tell him that all the time.”
Don’t sell out like most of my virtual Youtube friends. I see what you’re doing.
It has been a year of clicking on it because it was there, notebook notations and, writing here and making youtube videos, and, and, and the rest is lost to history.
My notes reveal that I like videos where the protagonist is walking and talking. I don’t like opinions, everyone has opinions, and I like to form my own. I do like observations, and reactions. Those are very revealing. Opinions take too much thought. They are ‘interesting’. As soon as someone says something is interesting I think, that’s a thought, not a feeling. You’re telling me nothing.
“Nope. That’s just safe.”
Last updated December 24, 2020