As I look back into the past five or ten years, I see why you’d say I appear to be crazy. I thoughtlessly express my ideas in prose painted a color symbolic of my state of mind. Let’s say its blue...sky, Mediterranean, bruised, aqua, azure, robin’s egg, bluegrass, navy, metallic, satin, transparent. Or, it’s the textured gray of wishing, searching, complaining, holding my breath, addling, fiddling, cleaning, or pretending. Or, maybe, it’s splotchy sand and terra cotta on khaki that wishes for conflict resolution everywhere.
I’ll argue a pointless point. My summary inevitably veers off into a smelly swamp, where I wait for the gators like an orphan waiting for his supper. I invite the gnash of snapping jaws, and when they don’t come, I say “oh, well”. I usually just give up, and I think about what the verbal venom would have been like. I remember the imagined high points and the disingenuous personal attacks. Those go into the “examples of sanity for future reference” file. I add to my list of court arguments in case I’m called as a character witness again.
I probably just talk to hear myself…kind of a way of listening for a heartbeat. I can start a sentence and then try to think up an ending that will make me feel like a genius. That’s been going on for a long time, and I’m not particularly anxious to fix it. I enjoy a comfortable state of pretense occasionally. I think of how I’d handle the office of President. I know this: lots of insecure, anti-authoritarian, left leaning slackers would think I’m crazy. On a national level, cable commentary would blossom, and TV producers would dig around in that swamp for evidence I may have dropped. There’s no doubt they could find little pretend thirty-eight caliber slugs from a nonexistent smoking gun. The conspiracy hunter in me almost guarantees this little confession itself could become a great expose…the handy bombshell that might rocket a yellow thesaurus-wielding cub onto page one.
