My unofficial absence from this blog wasn’t a planned thing. It happened much the same way most everything in life happens- by turning a corner and bumping into shit that you didn’t figure on bumping into and after which you curse and scream and after which you begin learning all over again.
That’s me. Here.
This blog has been me. Here. Sans the real name (It’s not Cayman Thorn) or any real definable shit that would staple me to a place I most certainly do not give a fuck to have. I’m not being nasty about it, just being real as Vera Farmiga’s lovely.
I haven’t been away from writing in the interim- I’ve been hard at it. Nah, I’ve just been away from this blog. So much so that I tossed with saying goodbye to this blog. But this blog, it’s complicated and simple all in one. The complicated part comes out of its birth- as it was born inside the death of a severed long distance relationship. The simple comes from the fact that I haven’t maintained this blog for numbers or followers or stats. This blog was just for me; its original promise was to swim me out on a month or two long voyage, which just so ended up turning into years and years.
That’s how I do things. My way. Not the Frank Sinatra ‘My Way’. Shit, no. The ‘my way’ of doing business hasn’t the vintage suit of old Blue Eyes. Nah . . . My ‘my way’ has some major fuck-strum to it (don’t check urban dictionary, they denied my entry), but you know what? It’s my way. And if I promised myself anything back inside a time when I didn’t believe I was living beyond the moon that was careening its way into some future madness of a love song, it was that I would do whatever I do . . for what ‘me heart was screaming on. I would do that. Even if that didn’t make sense to anybody else, I would still do that. I would trust the screaming bloody murder doing the Jump Around inside my head until it stopped making a case . . or until it proved its point.
The ‘my way’ of doing things does not have to end prettily. It does not have to rhyme or ching or boost or corral or rhythm or dance sexily. Oftentimes it booms and slaps and agitates and battles and punches and curses its way into a McEnroe finish.
No matter. It simply has to be me.
I came upon one of these ‘my way’ times recently. And when I did, I fucking went off, hard and long and to the dead crap pants of General MacArthur. I haven’t gone that fiery or bent or hasty since George Washington (That was his middle name, I hope) Bush was choking on a splinter.
But you know what? It was me. It was right and true and brutally fucking honest. And honesty is something I’ve got to get back to having more of, rather than the way less I’ve been too good at maintaining. I’m no Boy Scout, but I have to believe honesty can buy you a day, or at the very least a good lunch.
Anyways, enough of the fried-metaphysical of things, here’s a tune to spill on until I get back later this week with my thoughts on life and love and friendship. (My less threatening side might just end up throwing down on the Miami Heat, or California Chrome . . or maybe fish tacos- friend or foe?)
(That was a long fucking parenthetical mole there, wasn’t it?)
I never know what this blog is gonna ask me for. It’s a thing.