Feeding the Gods of Degradation.

Perhaps not something someone would’ve done very constantly, but I found myself going through the older posts here (those 3 years ago, when I was considerably much similar to myself now than anything). It took a lot of wincing; reading older things you wrote might or might not do that to you. I won’t say I’ve improved. I do, however, regret that 3 years ago, I could write anything.

3 years ago I don’t think I’ve ever given much thought over anything I’ve written and posted. The aftermaths of which was never really concerned about until it swings onto my face, the force of a wrecking ball.

These days, I think I think too much while writing. It saves me from some humiliation, if whatever I wrote ever did it, but damn - I mean, just writing whatever and whatever else, it’s the sort of free-flight sensation that seems like something a lifetime ago. I guess I missed it.

I guess I’m envious.

Have I made a step forward? Maybe, maybe. But it feels like leaving the great green meadow to find that blue cubicle with a grey desktop and grey keyboard and orange mug of cold tea.

****

I used to like doing this, just for the heck of it;

The word of the day today is Ebullient.

\ih-BUL-yuhnt\

1. Overflowing with enthusiasm or excitement; high-spirited.
2. Boiling up or over.

Supposedly, it helped with my vocabulary, which never improved anyhow. But at least I learnt Genuflect and Nonagenarian and Nimiety.

An example in using Ebullient:

The glasses he wore for astigmatism gave him a deceptively clerkish appearance, for he had an ebullient, gregarious personality, a hot temper, and an outsized imagination.
-- Jon Lee Anderson, Che Guevara: A Revolutionary Life

These are taken from Dictionary.com’s Word of the Day e-mails, which never failed to arrive nightly, though I’ve taken a long backseat in actually reading them.
Well, I guess there’s no harm trying pick it up again.

Learnt something new today…

*******

I feed my soul to the Gods of Degradation.

(Bottled. And. Suckled. And. Over. Dinner.)

They complain that it’s not wholesome enough. Something about imbalanced meals.

Django Reinhardt sings to me with his guitar, his two fingers are four and six and eight and a hundred and eighty five. Stéphane Grappelli joins him and so was the Quintette du Hot Club de France.

Jeepers Creepers, they play. Nothing scary here. It’s only jazz.

Ba. Da. Dadadadadadada.

I sit here all day. I sit here and I watch something. Then I read something. Then I play something nice. Then I go and tinkle and come back and sit. And these hands here they stick tubes in me that link to pipes that link to valves that open to a big gigantic thingy that processes the stuff and put them in bottles and the big boss drinks it, labels it, sends it to his friends.

I need to get out. I need to go park myself at the nearest avenue and leer at the world like they owe me 60 bucks.

But these pipes. They never leave.

And Jeepers Creepers.

Ba. Da. Dadadadadada.