Inward Bound

I've been spending a lot of time in my head lately. Yeah, I know, that's a rundown neighborhood, but I go there anyway. Call it slumming. While I'm there, strolling the boulevard of broken dreams and digging through the trash piled about in darkened alleys, I have noticed a certain quieting has occurred. It is as if the traffic has thinned and the kids have left the playground. In place of the usual noise, I detect a sense of ennui. (Ennui go into the night.)(Okay, it's not completely hushed in the monkeymind, but...) Ennui, I'm told by my Webster's New World, is weariness and dissatisfaction resulting from inactivity or lack of interest:boredom. Hmmm. I don't understand boredom except when I am caught in a long line without a book and I'm active enough for a guy who if he had started kindergarten at age fifty would be graduating high school this year, but, still, the feeling persists. In my mind I'm walking down a dirt road aimlessly kicking a can in front of me. I sense change. Change that is either needed or is coming whether I need it or not. Change, alteration, a reshuffling of the deck that is me. Will it be subtle or serious? Sudden or sneaky? I guess I will just have to wait and see.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Roy and Dale are stuffing Trigger while biting Bullet and the Lone Ranger enters the mine and says "Hi ho! Silver!"

The writer sits still and stares out the window unfazed by the day's beauty. His thoughts turn further and further inward until he finds at last the epicenter. It's gooey there, mushy and slimy. It's all kidneys and livers and pancreas floating around in blood and guts. Bleck, the writer thinks. I'm getting the hell out of here.

So much for introspection.