Blog #14: Vodka in Minneapolis

Blog #14: Vodka in Minneapolis

 

Why bodka?  (HA!!  I said ‘bodka’…)

Why Minneapolis?  (Because that’s just where it was.)

There is freedom in vodka.

In vodka there is death.

Ensconced (entrapped) in living.

I should be working on my novel…

‘Should’ is debilitating; ‘Is’ is liberating.

No, no—I should be working on my novel…

(Ah!  Yes… there is that…)

Why do I do that?  I know it will feel good to exercise, but I have to talk myself into it.  I know I’ll be disappointed in myself when I eat things I know aren’t good for me, but I give in to the temptation and eat them anyway.  And I know, psychologically, emotionally, whatever—I’ll be better if I write than if I don’t.  And still I have to force myself to do it…

Instead, today, I’m reading (a Robert Howard ‘Conan’ story)… and meditating (which—yea, right? except my meditation has been crap for the last year, and so really the half-assed version of it just now is but another delaying tactic)… making playlists on my Amazon Prime music library (‘Vodka in Minneapolis’—ah, ha!  Now it all makes sense… but probably not)… oh, hey, I haven’t written a new blog this week!  (Just another procrastinating maneuver.)

Buttever.

I sent my first novel ‘Natalya’s Tale’ to the publisher on Wednesday—so probably to be released in March-ish (early April-esque?)…  Then I’ll have to (I suppose) “play author” again for a bit…  (Ah-ha!:  ‘Vodka in Minneapolis’… (still nuthin’?))

Buffy the Vampire Slayer.  (Just because I was thinking of it… like when I just have to Six:  ppttbbe-ppttbbe!!~)

So wouldn’t that be 12?

(No, no—of course not… it would be 6—6…)

In all the Universe (I’m not even going to get into the Multiverse/Infinite Dimensions jazz), there is just this one moment.  The Big Bang was everything—everywhere and everywhen, but all right here and right now; we’re just really rather slow about the realization of what all it was…  BOOM!!!  Exactly.

So there is just this.  So am I truly procrastinating in writing my novel?  Indeed, by troth, and forsoothly?  Because apparently I’ve already written it (and/or failed to do so)… and so now we’re (or at least I’m) just waiting to see how it all turn(s/ed) out…

And so I’m not going to poop anymore either, because—well, been there, done that, hey?

            “What’s that abysmal stink?!”

Just nevermind.

“So, sew, suck your toe—all the way to Mexico!  While you’re there, cut your hair, and stick it in yer underwear!”  (Did that just happen—or was it 35 years ago?!)

Our story thus far… (True-believers!)  [HA!!]  {Butanyhoo…}  Telemachus, having fought the six-headed sea serpent Scylla—aided by his cohorts, the giant strongman Alcides and the blood-sucking, little fiend Tepez (and, of course, the expendable sailor dude—who, if this had been a Star Trek episode, would have been wearing a red shirt… but would not have had a Scottish accent)… and he is pulled into the giant whirlpool Charybdis, only to awaken in a subterranean cavern… he is confronted by the god of the foam of the sea—who looks remarkably like a dead jellyfish and/or glowing sea-brain—and is informed that he, too, like the author, will never poop again!

(HA!!  I made that last bit up… Telemachus is a regular pooper.  Hey, that should be a thing!  Like when you’re saying someone is alright or pretty cool or a decent guy… “yeah, he’s a regular pooper…”  Maybe not.)

What the hell?!

(“Maybe you have to poop?”)

When one is very young, poop humor is quite funny… so, you see, like anyone else, I had more or less outgrown it—and then my nephews were born (albeit over a span of time, not all at once… ah-ha!  ‘Vodka in Minneapolis’?  (Not now!!)  [-EEEk!-]  Or were they all born at once—as were we all—in the mighty Big Bang of Existence, that came and went like an excitable little fellow who really doesn’t at all respect her anyway and—Hup!  Just skip that last bit…  That came and went in a flash, a mere moment, an infinitesimal spasm of being—and then gone… leaving in its wake but the essence of a dream to be fathomed in what seems like just a veritable forever sort of span of time, but in reality is already done!?  Perhaps… probably… presumably.)  Butanyhoo…  So I again revisited the humor of the poopy talk so as to be amusing to mine ‘ephews—and, as we’ve seen by things like ‘Family Guy’, once you go back, you never really outgrow it a second time.  (I still have tentative plans to write a poop-themed ebook entitled ‘What’s Brown and Sounds Like a Bell?’)

“Sometimes I poop a lot; other times I’m just full of shit.”  (Alright, now just know that crap off!)

Elvis didn’t poop, and so then he died.  If that doesn’t prove my theory—

Finding God in a bottle.  Vodka in Minneapolis.  Cast in the bright light of remembered being—safe in the shadows… diving headfirst into the roiling chaos of life—sheltered by cushioned ambient of sweet nectar of death… sunny, autumn afternoon—almost Feblueberry—flying low through the big city, music blaring through my soul… hot and cold, light and dark… don’t know where I’m going—but going anyway… don’t know why I’ve been—but carry it along in the wake of all that I am… four and a half years—wrapped in tomorrow and yesterday and next year and—

So… given all the times I’ve said “so”—and add to that all the very many ellipses… well, I suppose I haven’t really said all that much of a concrete nature here, have I?

…mayhap I’ll just go work on my novel.

 

 

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—Mishka Zakharin  © 2015

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