"I Thought"

I thought about waiting until I was inspired to something particularly profound, which nicely defeats the purpose of this continuing exercise in the entertainment value of pointless rambling. I often think of things to write in this blog, many exciting phrases and very natural-sounding, too, but I'm away from the blog when I think of them, so they don't get written. This very topic is something I've been wanting to bring up, the idea of trying to think of what I'm saying--no--the idea that I think of what I'm saying only when I don't seem to have the opportunity to say it. Once I'm actually at the keyboard, freeze happens, and I lose track of the exciting fireworks I've been producing in my head. The thing that arrives on the paper (or, in this case, on the screen) resembles more the firework after it's been fired, that stubby little ash-colored thing that litters the streets for weeks after the fourth of July. That may be what you're reading right now; it's hard for me to tell.

And that's among my points, isn't it? What I'm writing here--what I've been writing for all these decades--may work just fine. Part of the problem, though, is that I'm thinking a few words ahead of what I'm typing, as I've learned to do to impress and entertain, so it's quite possible that I'm denying myself the benefit of the exercise by the very virtuosity (editing would eliminate that alliteration) that I'm trying to escape here. I'm typing as fast as I can, and I'm dissatisfied, and I mostly blame Peter Elbow. He's a very good writer, very impressive or influential, as I'd probably rather say, and so his program of applied self-doubt gets right in the head of the aspiring writer. I definitely aspire. I'm pretty good (unless I'm dreadful), but I still like the idea that I can get better. Will this help?

And let's consider for a moment the rank self-absorption this transparency reveals. Just about every word I'm typing here refers to my mental state and the importance of recording its awesome triviality. Who needs that, besides, evidently, me. I know you're there, processing; if you're not there when I expect (sometime in late 2011), perhaps you're there at another time, wondering what you've stumbled over and if this guy'll ever shut up about whatever he's talking about. I seem to have arrived (to be arriving) at a nearly content-free language--not language--content-free prose. Clearly these words are about something, but they seem to add up ultimately to zero. I'm not inspired

I'm not inspired. Is this a cry for help? Who'm I crying to? Am I available for response, even for an echo from the cliffs I'm throwing this message over. Hello. The main reader of these words, I expect, will be me, so greetings, Future Charles. I hope that you've accomplished the flying car and the portable house and so forth. Does the latex itch?

I'm funny, and just about every paragraph I type starts with the word "I". These two facts may relate to each other; it's hard for me to tell. Actually, on reflection, it's easy for me to tell, to say, to narrate with many many words. It's hard for me to know.