Bjork, Philip Glass, or Drunken Kung Fu, Thoughts on Writing in Public, and Planting Too

There is, at the moment, a set of fingers in an eagle talon lock around the inside of my sinuses, ready to roll my skull down an alley toward some certain destructive relief.

My headphones keep in the best of my brains while keeping out the worst of the last forty years’ generic pop top forty.

To my right there’s a set of truly awful elder suburbanites. They’ve done little but complain and self-excuse, yelling at the kids running the coffee counter for doing business as they were taught. The crowd’s mass is surprising, but the behavior of its elements is not. I am a pilgrim in an unholy, beige land.
In any given roomful of people there’s a dozen discordant but equally banal conversations going on at once. I’ve never been able to force them to resolve into a singular buzz.  I wish I could.  If I could find the music in a brutal cacophony I wouldn’t wear through headphones so quickly.

I don’t mind odd sounds. I’m a great fan of both Philip Glass and Bjork, but both of them rein in their most discordant elements by unifying them in an overall musical theme. Crowd noise is just noise, so far as I hear it.

Even the sporadic can be functional. Drunken kung fu is a style which functions by odd movements, that seems to be made up of wild flailing and off balanced positioning, and when viewed for any length of time becomes beautiful, the odd movements demonstrating purpose, the stumbling revealing itself as tactical repositioning.

I should be able to like, or at least tolerate crowd noise, but despite my efforts, the lack of unifying purpose prevents it from being anything but a distracting nuisance.

I could go home. I’ve more than made my NaNoWriMo quota for the day. Eli seems to be on his way toward becoming aware of one of the novel’s major objectives. There’s no real drive to stay and force another few hundred words out of my fingers.

I’ve got plants to tend. My grow tent is as together as I care to make it before this Saturday’s sale. I could move the cacti to it and plug in the light. I could and I should, but so far I won’t.

I am uncomfortable and restless here, but for some reason I’m trapped, not by any physical means, but in my mind. It’s an anchor I’ve caught on too many times in the last few years of my life, one I thought I’d weighed in recent weeks. Extending the metaphor to mirror all of life, I suppose sailing is never entirely smooth.

The dark comes early.  Ready or not, I must to work.

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