Noted and Unremarkable

It’s been a good four months since I wrote something that I intended to actually keep or do anything of value with. Then again I’ve intended to keep and do things with many pieces in the past but just can’t seem to jump off the bridge with them. I’ve done nothing of note in life up until now except sculpt a person I thoroughly enjoy being and who is generally accepted into several households, bars, back rooms, fields, standing circles of all colors and onto repurposed benches, couches, creative councils and chairs of all kinds. It’s kind of remarkable how un-notable the majority of things in life actually are, as well as how unremarkable the majority of things that have been noted eventually turn out to be. Like take today for example, which passed as if I had slept through it. Nothing was afoot, no one needed me, no progress was made towards physical or spiritual salvation and my spine assumed the form of an imperfect walking stick for the lion’s share of the day, as I slumped against a sculpture art piece of sweat stained pillows and clumps of cat hair, letting the world and it’s unremarkable things of note spin by my eyes on three different screens like a semi-professional actor playing a retired hacking expert who’s back in the game for just one more job, in a 9 minute action comedy short directed by a teardrop-in-the-ocean white boy with a semi-chiseled “for instagram” pair of biceps, an expensive shoulder camera and a slightly sideways backwards hat: unremarkable but now unfortunately, very much noted. I say “it’s been a good four months since I wrote something that I intended to actually keep or do anything of value with” like this is something that I actually do intend to keep or do anything of value with (and if you’re wondering, I did type out the first seven words of the quote above but then I just copied and pasted the rest of the quote to save some time– which i’m just now wondering how much time I actually saved, if any at all? For the sake of this diatribe, let’s call it six seconds. I wonder since I saved those six seconds, right before I die, whenever that may be, if i’ll learn one more secret about a loved one as they sit bedside of me and cry and choke out their last confessions of love or hatred or something in the middle, before I slip into my next chapter. OR – I wonder if those six seconds have doomed me to die alone, allowing time for the person who has inevitably been by my side for the last several weeks making sure I slip into my final moment as seamlessly as possible with a mixture of stories from the past that I may or may not remember and heavy doses of morphine, to get up and pour me a cup of water in an attempt to help in whatever way a cup of water could at that point in my life– and I die as they leave the room, too feeble or too lost to the Eternal Sand Dunes to call out for them, which is unfortunate because those who have been lost in sand dunes will tell you that all they could ever have wanted was a glass of water. One can only speculate the size of the wave i’ve just created. When it’s done with me, I hope it creeps up behind a bee stung “wish I was hot” girl taking thirst traps on a forgotten beach and slaps her ass as she vogues for her mostly underage incel followers, tossing her into the shallow brine of an ever boiling sea, ruining her makeup and sending an old couple, who are sitting in matching chairs a few feet away, watching and judging and who have been to that same spot on that same beach every summer since 1953 and have seen it change so much to the point that that’s all they talk about, into one last fit of intense uncontrollable laughter where both of them pee themselves which adds another five minutes of hearty cackles and breathless wincings). In all honesty, this will probably slip into the horseshoe & hand grenade- like filing cabinets of my laptop only to be found sometime later when I decide to pick up a book again that makes me want to write, like I did tonight. I’ll think something like: “oh man, what was that thing I was writing the other week? That really drawn out thought vomit that sounded genius as I read it aloud in my head, but turned out to be more work than I initially set out to tackle at two in the morning so I walked away from it for while, forgot about it, changed my state of mind, wanted to write again sometime later but didn’t want to start from scratch, remembered the existence of this piece, found it after seven minutes of searching, grabbed a pencil, opened my mouth, and started up a second go at the vomiting.” I’d then probably think it was much too convoluted, sloppy and not worth any more of my time: Again, noted and unremarkable. Maybe this is being read though. Maybe you’re frowning because I sound like a note from a clever but insecure lead singer of an alt-pop-indie-shed-pub-punk band that’s situated on the inside cover of their limited release pre-order vinyl debut titled, “sharpie on the bathroom stall” with ‘x’s fxr xll thx rxxnd vxwxls. That worried but entertained “awww” feeling you might be having towards me just means you’re putting too much emotional attachment towards the rotten limbs and waxy footholds that sit on the way to becoming a Trivial Pursuit question. If you’re feeling more of an ‘eye-widening annoyance’ by my blathering and shortsighted middle-aged opinions, then it’s strange that you’ve read this far. It’s alright to stop pretending that things matter. Being remarkable or noteworthy holds little weight in today’s airwaves simply by the nature of things that are deemed to be so and it’s sad. It’s wasted energy on an unfortunate fact. It’s the little bit of shit on your finger that happens after a rough tango with a slice of one ply. Why chase ‘remarkable’ when you can just be happy, live slowly and let the future marathon runners of the world decide if you deserve a passing query on the state of your crowd funded production as they take an after-gold-medal-bite of their egg free, twenty-nine dollar slice of quiche. Or do they run their race, eat their “quiche”, drink their latte, have boney athletic sex that they sell for fifteen dollars a month, and talk about literally anything else? Because that’s what I would do and I’m no different than them, except I don’t fucking run marathons.