When there’s nothing to say

“If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”   – Henry David Thoreau

I have nothing important, beautiful or valuable to say at the moment my friend.

My hands come quite empty today, which is perhaps a more accurate depiction of what I always come with, if we’re going to be honest here.  Brilliant thought and stunning prose have never been my aim or promise to you, though I admit such an offering would delight my heart to give, had I such a talent to bestow.

The haphazard collection of observations I make of this world are usually neither important nor pertinent in most cases, though I may find some personal and anomalous meaning in them somehow.

I know that.  And so do you. (:

But write I must, for I am relentlessly and forever burdened by the compelling need to do so.  I don’t know exactly why this is nor how it’s always been the case for me, but I’ve come to the conclusion that it doesn’t really matter.  My small thoughts and expression are insignificant enough to warrant a certain allowance for arbitrariness, which is perhaps the very freedom that draws me to them.

As briefly told in Charliesbend back in November charliesbend.wordpress.com/2011/11/27/reasons-to-write-about-pb-j my purpose here is what it’s always been. Like breathing, I can hardly help myself.

The fact that I allow you into my foolishness is as strange to me as it may be to anyone reading this, which remains the plight of most writers, I suppose. Unless a word is read by another person, it continues in it’s slumber until awakened.  And so, even if an author does not know why he writes something (or even thinks it rather stupid) he wants his words to live and breathe in this world, if only for a moment.

Which may explain some of the books being written these days.

I’m afraid the real and relevant thoughts that have filled my mind and heart of late are not Fairydust Tales, they must be directed elsewhere.  Consequently this leaves you with the buoyant and meaningless in-between corners I find along the way.

I’ve now just spent several minutes writing about how I have nothing to write about.

Superfluous, yes, but also advantageous in it’s own way. You see, I’ve managed to get something on this page, and though the words may be entirely inconsequential and lacking any content, sometimes such things are necessary.

Sometimes in life it’s just important to keep the engine running, regardless of whether or not you’re able to move yet.  You cannot always produce beauty or greatness in every season, but you can always choose to keep breathing, keep writing, keep climbing. Sometimes the steps seem small and trivial, perhaps even pointless in our minds.  But a step is a step, and often the smallest of these are greater than the largest, at least the ‘largest’ as appraised by the eyes of those who would seek to judge them.

If your steps be small my friend, remember that strength, courage and hope are measured not by distance, speed or grandiose show, but something else altogether.  If nothing is what you have at the moment, offer that to the world in as much sincerity as you can muster.  Authentic silence and empty hands can be most refreshing.

Lets not forget, Seinfeld and Costanza managed to create an entire sitcom based on this idea of nothing if I am not mistaken, and it played out rather well for them.  And they never even got past the nothing part 😉

And now, because I’d feel bad leaving you with nothing, let me at least pass along some music I’ve found recently. Hope you enjoy some of these songs as much as I have:

Ok, some Joe Purdy:

Take My Blanket and Go

Abbie’s Song

Helen Jane Long:

Echo

Porcelain

Greg Laswell:

I’d be Lying

Comes and Goes

High and Low

Back to you

Advertisements

Memoirs of a dilly-dallier

I tend to take life rather slowly in most contexts, perhaps too slowly at times….which is why I find it rather ironic that I have such a wretched habit of speeding.

That’s right, I speed.  I said it.

This is nothing if not amusing, and also somewhat bothersome on a variety of levels.  I mean, if I’m going slow-n-steady the rest of the time, why not enjoy the benefit of being a pokey driver and thus avoid dreaded traffic tickets?

To be fair, I have somehow miraculously avoided receiving all but one ticket in the 14 years I’ve been on the road, a grace I neither deserve nor really understand.

Purely unintentional,  this incessant speeding of mine occurs most often whilst in that peaceful, zoned-out state of mind wherein I find I am quite content to be occupied (if not lost) in deep thought about goodness-knows-what.  This is the internal place I go to ponder, and also consequently remove myself from the rest of reality.

Observe,  the face of one driving in the Zone:

Unmistakable

So then, suddenly, something will wake me from my delightful stupor and I will start to wonder why all the cars around me seem to be going so slowly.  I then glance down at odometer, whisper a word I shouldn’t say, and quickly reduce my speed.

Apparently when left to herself devoid of my mind’s direct supervision, my right foot becomes quite the mischief-maker.  Who would have known? My dear foot, you shall be the end of me someday.

Perhaps she is the one little part of me that does not fit with the rest, the rebel that loves to break away, run, and hightail it towards some good solid foolish fun when I’m not looking. She’s normal I suppose, reminding me that sometimes speed is not altogether bad.  The rest of me finds some sort of peaceful satisfaction in a pace of life so foreign it may be unrecognizable to some.  This world is faster than what I’d prefer most of the time, which often inclines me towards quiet open spaces where things seem to make more sense somehow.

I don’t want to get a million things done in a day.  I want to contemplate, stare at things far too long, watch and wonder, listen, touch, and otherwise dilly-dally until there’s nothing else to ponder there.  I am dreadful at getting somewhere in a rush, unless I’m driving (but of course that is my mind’s fault for losing track of my rogue foot.)

If left to myself I may spend an hour staring at the sky if no one is there to draw me away from it.  I am an obnoxious slow-poke when it comes to walking anywhere, and am happy to be scooting along with no destination whatsoever, save the step ahead in the road before me.  It is all rather inconvenient really, not at all practical.  My roommates in college got some good laughs out of my ridiculous habits though, didn’t we Q? (;

Do not ever go to Disneyland with me.  Please, spare yourself the misfortune.

I mean it.  Once I found these flower lamps over by the mint julep bar in New Orleans Square and spent who-knows-how long just doting over them while my friends went on the Matterhorn six times.

Now, to me this seems a very reasonable, worthwhile thing to do with one’s time at Disneyland, but I have yet to find anyone who might agree with me.