Blogger's Block: Perfunctory Daily Musings

The Worm has informed me that I am to post an entry today on TWM, that its followers have expectations, and that I am to enlighten, amuse and inspire. I told The Worm that I’d nothing to say. It didn’t matter.

If you haven’t already seen it, I’d check out “Hitler Plans Burning Man” on youtube. And “Shoes”. Both are very funny.

Did you hear about that guy in Canada about a year ago who cut off the other guy’s head with a bowie knife on the Greyhound bus right in front of everybody? Crazy fuckin’ story, totally worth googling. I think the guy’s name is Vincent Li.

Armin Meiwes, a cannibal, is also worth googling.

Here’s a poem I wrote about six months ago:

Dumb, Impotent

I want to write some verse to show my love
My passions pure and durable, but damn!
Analysis alone, it's mute to prove
What sentiment has wrought inside a man.
In fantasy I dream my art pours out
Like music, sweet, articulate and so
Does banish from my love's mind any doubt.
My clumsy songs, half stiff, are yet sung true.

The poet's craft is honed and can express
Affection 'fore its object's manifest,
But doggerel of brutes can only stand
If vouched for by the muse that did command.
And, so, my love alone can validate
The words for her alone I do create.
My air's obscure, but if she breath it then
My song will flow despite my barren pen.

I would’ve also posted an old crossword puzzle that I made years ago (it was very clever and entertaining!), but it was on paper and I don’t have a scanner.

I had planned on writing a really good blog entry today about a recurring nightmare I have in which I shoot somebody, but I just don’t have any energy and can’t articulate it well enough. I’m at a shooting range that looks like the inside of a very large garage. My shooting lane is set up so that my target is just to the left of an open door, just like a door that might connect a garage to a kitchen in a house. But instead of a kitchen, through the open door is a huge lobby or atrium, like what might be at the center of a giant mall or hotel or museum but even more huge. And the lobby or whatever it is is extremely brightly lit, radiant, and white (the garage is lit dimly, like a typical garage). Far away, in the middle of what I can see of the lobby (I’m 30 plus feet away from the open door, and so my view of the lobby is limited to its center), are some tables, chairs and a couple of diners like it was a really fancy (and very sparsely crowded) food court. There is nothing between the doorway and the diners except the bright, white floor of the lobby, and the diners are so far away that I can just barely make out that they are, in fact, people dining. I think to myself, “This is the stupidest place ever to put a shooting lane…if I were to shoot a few degrees to the right, I’d be shooting through that doorway right at those people…why would they put a shooting range next to a museum…why’s the fucking door open, etc.?” I think to myself that I should switch lanes, but when I look back toward the counter behind me and to my left, where I got the gun and the ammo, the guy who gave me the stuff was gone. I look to my right: to the right of the open doorway are other lanes and other shooters, their backs and shoulders to me, wearing their ear-protecting headphones and loading or aiming, focused on their shooting. Nobody seems to think the open door is a problem. I think to myself that the open door really isn’t a problem so long as I don't shoot through it. I’m not the greatest shot, but I am confident that, even if I were to miss my target completely, I could manage to keep my fire within my own lane. I know for sure that I can avoid shooting through the open doorway. I think about the theoretical possibility that someone could bump into me suddenly or I could have a stroke, something could conceivably cause me to fuck up. But there’s no one around except the shooters to my right, and they couldn’t bump into me because I’d see them coming at me first. I’m not going to have a stroke. The risk is so small that I’d be a coward to not shoot for fear of accidentally shooting through the doorway. I put on my headphones and look down my lane at my target. The wall on which it’s mounted looks like every other wall in the garage/shooting range – that is, made of drywall and two-by-fours. Surely, I think to myself, there is some heavy-duty reinforcing barrier on the other side of that garage-wall looking wall. I don’t understand why the drywall and two-by-fours are even there if there’s concrete or steel or whatever behind the wall, but I look over toward the other shooters and the wall they’re shooting at looks the same as mine (indeed, our parallel lanes all terminate at different sections of the very same wall). I begin shooting and am carried away for a while in fun. I’m shooting well…I can see my bullets’ holes appearing in my target and I’m getting close to bulls-eyes. After a little while, I feel something is wrong and I take off my headphones. I notice that my fellow shooters are gone and that I'm alone in the garage. I see and hear distant commotion in the lobby. I vaguely see people bustling around one of the diners, who looks like he’s slumped over forward in his chair with his head and face on the table and an arm hanging limp. The commotion continues, and I realize that he’s been shot. Panic washes over me. I highly suspect that I have just shot him, and I know for sure that people will think that I just shot him. I look around, once again registering the fact that I’m alone. I think back to the guy at the counter who rented me the gun, where is he? I think back to what he looked like, I realize that I can’t remember his face. He wore a t-shirt, and I think he had longish hair. I look around for an office, any sign of activity, any exit through which people might have gone. Goddamn those morons, I think, I am not going to take the blame for this! Whatever happened, this is their fuck-up, not mine! Those fucking idiots should have never placed me here; I have to find them quickly, put this mess on them. It occurs to me that even when I find them I'm still going to be in a lot of shit. Then it occurs to me that finding them would be the best-case scenario, that right now there’s nobody with whom to even share the blame. My panic is fused with anger; I vibrate, burn with hatred for the range’s owners, employees, whoever was involved in this business, people I can’t punish or even identify. My rage begins to give way to helplessness, I don’t know what to do, and then I wake up.