Comment/ No Comment

I guess people want to tell me shit and you know that's fine, i understand and since a few of you have asked why (and one lucky reader got a detailed response) i'm going to turn the comments back on, you see i should just repost the letter i ripped off one day but i'm much to lazy for that and basically my decision was made to prove something to myself, like would i still do this if i did it for no other reason than to ramble on and send missives into the ether and not worry if they were read or liked or what not and the answer i came to is yes i would still do it... you see i was beginning to wonder if i wasn't altering what i was writing and thinking about an "audience", the reader in  grad school speak, and of course i never really gave much thought to having one and then when i did i was a bit surprised (not that it's a big audience) but as i stated before it probably takes a special kind of sicko to actually bother to read this shit, of course i like it cuz i sit back and laugh and have conversations with my imaginary friends as i do it and it is an act done purely for me and no one else, i have no problem claiming to be a writer cuz i fucking am, doesn't mean i'll ever make a dime from it or publish a novel or show up on Oprah or worse yet show up at some art gallery or coffee shop reading poetry and playing bongos but i'll just keep doing what i'm doing...

See it all started when i started reading the Dude De Ching (the teachings of  Lebowski) and the Tao Te Ching (for the first time in 20 odd years), i began dwelling on the purpose and meaning of what i was doing and why, of course at the same time i was smoking much herb and drinking early and often as my recycling bin attests to, combine that with the sweeties i love so much and you have a combination for much self reflection or mental illness i'm not sure which and so one fine day i said fuck it, no more comments, like Yul Brenner said about hair they are nothing but vanity and in trying to get closer to both the Dude and the Tao i figured i could do without and as i stated i can but apparently life is about communicating, though i've never been very good at that skill except when alone and in front of a typer and even then only marginally and so the comments are back on...

And so i lay all the commentless posts at Johnny Mathis' and Mark Eitzel's feet, see years ago i used to listen to this record in a tiny, sweltering room on the third floor of  a rooming house, usually by myself cuz all the cool kids thought the music was lame and no one would listen to the fucking words and i was like listen to the words and they were like pack the fucking bong and turn on Pavement man and so i would and then they'd smoke my weed and leave and i'd go back to listening to this, of course some years back in the early aughts i got a chance to see American Music Club in a small club here in Pittsburgh, it was back in the days when my life was coming apart and i was relying on booze and blow to take away any semblance of feeling i had left and i was sitting in the back of the place alone and they began playing this song and i could feel the water filling up in my eyes as i thought about nothing but an epic string of failures that had seemed to pile up in front of me and it seemed like it had been written specifically for me at that moment, a man who was disappearing into himself and amphetamines or maybe more correctly speed and how did i go from this ranking hood to being this lonely fucking soul standing in the back with tears running down his face and wondering when he would break the surface? come up for air? why did i say everything as if i was a thief?/ like what i stole had no value/ what i preached was far from belief? but enough of all that... comments are back on.