Friday, March 9, 2012

"a loosely fugued allegro..."

In what may turn out to be a good thing, I've had to reconstitute my online habits, having lost most of the pre-programmed shortcuts that normally get me -- saucily sporting the requisite ruby slippers -- home to Kansas from all the weirdness that is Emerald City.

Not having the usual clues, my neural network scanned the [event] horizon for happenings, but I could only summon yawns in response.  It seems I'm not up for "news" yet but declaring déjà-vu seems a tad jaded.

And declaring déjà-vu by crying "Eureka" in a crowded movie theater?  That, my friends, is a violation.  A citation.  Not of the meritorious kind, either.

No, I'm not out of my head, not overdosing on pain or spasm or thyroid medication, not febrile.  I  woke feeling this way -- sagging, overcome, tired before beginning.  No, not so much "overcome," because that would imply investment and caring and I have no investment in this mess, and I do not care one whit about anything right now.  "Tired" and "sagging" stand fiercely proud [if you're in that head-high, shoulders-back camp] or as unredressed self-indulgences [if you're otherwise inclined].

Could it be a culmination?  Am I going to finally use the math skills of my youth?  Are things finally adding up?

I would warn against trying to figure out why I am upset right now, except that, like my stock portfolio, I'm not particularly diversified.  In other words, there's nothing remotely mysterious, surprising, or revelatory about my conviction that all has gone to shit.  Pick almost any post in this forsaken blog-effort and there I am, declaring that things are bad, awful, worse.  If it comes to nought, it comes from me!

Me?  What about you?  What's your ownership in this mess?  Hmmm?

The problem with YOU, Dear Reader, is that you are sitting there, playing your fingers, splaying your digits, thinking of music, spanning octaves while I throw words on the wall, seeing what will stick, because that's the only way idiots can tell if the pasta is done.

Excuse me for a moment.  I was reading the Wikipedia entry for "sonata," and found the perfect phrasing for what I seek to say, what I am, in fact, performing: a loosely fugued allegro...

Sudden italics and trailing ellipses have saved more than a few offerings around here.  My promise is that tomorrow will not be as adolescent, given that I don't plan on accruing failures overnight.

Also, Duke is ahead of Virginia Tech 25-21, 3 minutes left in the first half.

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