Blues is King

Sadness and pistachios, at the worst of times. Need I, when knowing, turn off the smile, the stereo and brood, refusing (p)leisure, that is, the self, in aid of empathy? Should, moreover, a good person, a real good one, be physically incapable of merrymaking, in any guise, when there's woe afoot? Surely the thought would never even cross his (oo er) honest-to-goodness mind! Under this brand of reasoning, sound though it may be, the mere existence of temptation could well be enough to forsake you, oh my darling, regardless of give-ins or misgivings, resistance or succumbference. But, drat! Who, I ask you (other than a rival toy company), could remain poed and poffaced at Lands on my bed and sings her tune/to the light of the shining moon?

One's room, that organic collage of purchase and collection, can, in times of trouble (from without), be a positive whorehouse of temptation, damnation ground zero — the guilt of reaching for a Fantagraphics favourite! And let's not mention— Such things betray a light heart, too light, perhaps, to listen. But how can I abstain?— why should I abstain? It must be something altogether deeper, something weak and wheezing at the bottom of my soul, nearing death by distraction. And I don't hear it no more. I hear, rather, the backup singer, strolling up and down the melody, and cringing for future reference.

My eyes are suitably red, my posture slumped, my words appropriate, but that's sleep, habit and politeness, respectively. Not sick enough to forgo the gesture, but not right enough to mean it. And now I'm on the other end, all but pissing out problems, and the scarce words I've got felt as hollow as mine, tear or no. Relieved, I suppose, but unhelped — those words I knew not to seek anyhow. I await, instead, a flying fat thing with a spasmodic diaphragm and a penchant for song, rendered in her harmony. And a stronger man than I—

Something Fresh

Turns out, after all, the reason for the delay, in as much as one can account (being educated, I can account), and with everything — everything relevant, that is — considered, in context, and weighed, is that although, in the first instance, it may strike the average perceptor as a case of lax, nothing more, or perhaps, dare I mention, the dreaded block (hefted to the desk by Calvin himself, no doubt), it is, in honest, an issue of self-suppression, of editing, which, while not exactly quality control, at least not in the way some might hope (vückas), is a welcoming as well as worrying sign, one which may, fingers crossed, lead to a tangible upping in output, worthy output, and maybe even extend our little revolt a finger further. Fingers crossed.

In the next, that is, second, this sort of excusal, which inescapably reeks of I, sir, am never at fault (accused by compatriot, no less!), is rather hard to pull-off, no matter how true it turns out (after all, in as much as one can account) to be, and I rather think I'm under the shovel even mentioning it. Still, it's words, i'n' it? And I dare risk the backlash — for truth. But if you — my accuser (rattling blogspot, if not face-to-face in the rain) — insist on persisting, let me first concede that this is not actually an excuse, Percy; I am not intending, or attempting, to exonerate myself in any washäpperfoam of this unfortunate lapse; an unfortunate lapse it is, and although there are factors which contributed to its being so (yah), detailing them, as I have half-done, is purely an explanatory exercise; the buck stops with me. Hum.

I dare risk, but dare I continue? I will dare. Forgive my haste, my rush; blame my everything. Here's the deal, yo—: this isn't quite my favourite waste of time. That honour, for it is an honour, goes to another trivial pursuit — Sweet is the so-hard-to-come-by melody. And it belongs to the man who so stylishly severed an umbilical cord with a bullet. I'd sit back and wait, only there are few guarantees, may as well swing in with whatever's rattling around in there and fire it repeatedly at the wall, so repeatedly it need not matter whether it actually sticks or not. Bedsides — it wouldn't be me if I didn't.