A DJ on the local rock station played just the opening bars of Beck's "Loser" this afternoon, citing the first line as being one of the coolest in rock history. I agree with him. Never listened to the album, don't know that I ever shall, but I like the song a lot, and love the idea behind the lyric.
I'm in a mood to write, but I don't want to blog.
This is an interesting place to be.
There are times when I am deeply unhappy with myself. I have no one else to blame for this but me, but that doesn't make things easier to bear.
Sometimes it seems that there is a huge, slumbering beast in me, somewhere in the dark caverns of my heart, and while it takes a great deal to wake this dragon it's not impossible. When it stirs it makes dust shower down from all the rafters of my mind, and that dust swirls and clouds and obscures the paths I'm accustomed to, so that I wander lost and confused in the corridors of my own thoughts.
These past few months have found me wanting to blog about the things that define me as a person, things that might categorise me so that perhaps you as my reader can see me better, but when I get close to talking about things like fountain pens and fedoras and my pipes I always seem to gently steer away at the last moment, so that I end up writing about things that are funny, or are obscure, or simply don't fit too close, and I don't know why. I don't know why I am suddenly spending time closing and locking the shutters of my persona.
I have sepia ink for my fountain pens, but I cannot write.
I have Frog Morton tobacco for my pipe, but I don't want to smoke.
I have no place to go, so I do not need my fedora.