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About Hellbent

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  1. Boredom seizes the day. The kids, not really kids, but still kids as I saw it or from a common perspective the culture of the day had of such aged people, lazed around the house wallowing in the drear of the misty rain that fell in a soft pell on the green landscape. The house was cozy, though, and the crisp fidelity of the Klipsch sound system seemed to hold the promise that no matter how many days they might be held up in home by the clenching hold the weather had, fun could be had, and even maybe creativity could be spawned from the multitude of technological entertainment devices at their disposal. Tired thread of thought dissipates into a proposed possible scenario for the lacsadaizical lallygaggers:

    Dan does something on his lap top, photo editing? He takes the headphones – he just re-reminded me that he was watching a movie and that I ought to pay attention. Pay attention. Indeed, I don’t do that well. But I think a lot, and listen when it pays to. And analyze the different thoughts and ideas that spew forth from noisy mouths. My mouth? Motor mouth; mostly nonsense, mostly for self amusement when bored. Ben is droll as ever could be. Shooting negative vespas my way, making me cringe in his presence. He had a headache yesterday and now his motor bike is getting wet: doldrums for Ben exhascerbated by the rain. Ben is now leaving with Sharon to the pier to see if he can’t get lucky and score a lobstering job. Bulwip. Bullwhip. Bulwhip. Bullwip. I think I prefer Bulwip. There was a man who was writing a story and was afflicted with writer’s block which he was unable to get past. Frustration mounted, struggle as he might against the wall of an empty well of creative impulse, he suddenly found himself start a pretend conversation with God on his computer. I should like to try something of that vein now. Not sure what it should be, but a conversation could be fun. A conversation with who, though? And about what? Should it be a convo with me and someone else? Or two other people I know not? Hello muse, what do you have to tell me?
    Nothing at all?
    Well, what should I do?
    Well, I do think that would be rather pointless.
    Not at all.
    How do you figure?
    I don’t.
    You are really useless.
    You should talk.
    I’m told I talk too much.
    That you do.
    Can you reply in longer phrases than like say four words?
    You know I can.
    So why don’t you?
    Because I have nothing to say right now.
    Well, when will you, my muse, have something to offer me in prose?
    When you fix your nose.
    Hmm… I can’t tell if you just say that to rhyme or you really think so.
    I don’t know.
    I need a new muse.
    What you need is some discipline.
    I’m getting rather bored with this conversation, muse.
    Good, then we can terminate it now.
    I think stretching in the morning is really healthful.
    You should do it every morning.
    I should.
    You could.
    Well, I would to know some wisdom of the world.
    You already do.
    Well, I would to translate it into a digestible form in the written word.
    You will.
    When you enter on the path.
    (Steam billows from the side of the house.)
    I thought I was on the path.
    You’re closer to the path than you were.
    Where’s the path?
    Soon… soon you will see it. But right now it is obscured for reasons you don’t need to know or guess at.
    Well, muse, we will talk later. Thanks for the ambiguity… I suppose I shouldn’t have expected more upon our first conversing.
    This wasn’t our first time we’ve talked, just the first time you’ve written it down.

    So the conversation thing didn’t work out all that well.
    Yes it did.
    Hey, I thought we were done for now.
    We are never done.
    I know, but for right now I thought maybe I could go back to my narrative on the Lazerson/Schmolze/Boher househould. Heh, cool. So, anyway, the forecast changed, and the eight day stretch of lousy weather is now broken by two days of sun. Nora just said “What should we do, this is so boring.” Here is what I propose, as a gleeful smile comes across her face at the start of yet another O.A.R song, that we should put our collective creative muscle to work and come up with some merry making amongst ourselves without the aid of the technological devices. Sometimes the simplest activities are the most wholesome and fun. Connecting to fellow humans versus connecting to the bi-product programs of 0s and 1s. Humans need human contact in unadulterated form. Without the interference of the machine. It has its place, but so do we. A tool is a tool, not a way of life. We forget the source of happiness for pleasure, and we confuse the two. Shrubbery. Clouds… low lying in a thick mist. Thorns and brambles entwine round, spreading out and up, and pressed against the ground. Roots are strangled, vision stifled, sight obscured and noise excentuated to a maddening, all consuming pitch, but not deafening. The hearing would not be expunged, but instead the tortured souls writhe in pain, wondering where it went wrong, wishing if only we could find the way back.
    Drying up like a withered cactus in the desert, that is where my writing caliber is. What I would like, and I realize we don’t always get what we want, but if I could write for like 3 to 6 hours straight without ever running dry of the creative fountain. I should think it should be possible, but I barely touch on the creative impulse. I barely see it, breathe it let alone taste it. It’s there, though, just waiting to be tapped into and painted through its transfuser’s personality.