Its hard sometimes to hit the right tone with an entry.  I considered just simply titling it “I’m Count Fucking Dracula” and leaving it at that.  Then I would proceed rambling nonsensically like I usually do like a semiprofessional breakdancer consumed by wafts of crack smoke.  And you know, it probably would have been another one of those epic jams that would show up in a feed somewhere like your ex at approximately the wrong fucking time of night.  And you’d groan incorrigibly in my general direction which would in turn make me saunter off and wonder why you can’t understand my feelings.

And this is a banal argument that goes throughout my head each time before I let these little words and phrases loose from the chamber of amusement up in that pea brain of mine.  Sometimes, with the right amount of liquor and lack of good sleep, it takes advantage of the synchronicity.  And it just so happens to be mildly entertaining.  At least it is to me regardless of what that says about my habitual performances on the world wide web.

What I’ve become, like it or not, is some sort of serial exhibitionist who thrives on feedback.  I desperately try to suck people into the sphere of my own semi-miserable existence much like the people I can only complain about.  Sure the words are complicated and random.  I haven’t explained in plain text each and every event that pissed on my cheerios that evening, morning or noontime.  But it still masks itself as some sort of sickly honey pot, hellbent on drawing sustenance to the fray like some miniature reconstruction of Sinistar; belching and screaming in infantile rage.

I am count fucking dracula, coincidentally.  And yes, I want to suck your blood.  Like some plague ridden mosquito dodging lazy bats of dead air or some alley cat weaving through slabs of traffic to get back to its secret back alley hole in the wall.  I’m like any number of street dwellers in theory though I might argue in some pitiful attempt that the denotation of count in front of my name implies some sort of royal code.

You ask me a question innocently on the street and I turn it into something way more epic than it should be in my own head, though it passes off as something nonchalant.  I make you laugh and smile while I do the same, but your voice and speech pattern linger in my head in some pattern thats already been scattered into the realm of fantasy.  I take it home and grind it against my teeth; this simple human interaction.  And I wonder to myself if its healthy or not.

This of course has been an uphill battle over the course of the last year or so.  The focus has shifted from simple control over adrenaline when strangers ask even the simplest of questions to something of a skirmish.  Its that back alley shit you trained for in your karate class.  The way of the gentle fist.  The ability to playfully spar without breaking someone’s neck in the process.  To be polite and forceful without coming across as psychotic or assanine.  Some people don’t ever learn that balance.  Some people are way too conservative.  Some people saunter back into their lair and wither away.  

One would say its perfect timing.  The age old lessons of every single Shaw Brothers film ever created.  You train for the day you face your match and when it comes you enjoy every single torrid minute of it.  The nature of romance is similar to combat.  Its challenge and respect paired together.  The way of the fighter and not the scoundrel, though sometimes in order to achieve victory a little bit of skullduggery must be employed.  And thats where this silly pairing of equal parts pariah and prince come into play in various thematic analogs.

Its the duality of nature inherent in such paradoxes as Erwin Schrödinger’s famous feline predicament .  At once being good and evil.  Heretic and angel.  Left hand path and right sided.  Creating the illusion of transgression.  Feeling free while fully recognizing the truth that comes with the shackles.

This morning I looked up at the sky and not to be fucking poetic, the moon in the morning hanging in the sky always gets me.  There are many a reason and some would say almost too many to be a tangential reference in this blog.  But lets just say the irony of seeing something so indicative of being grounded and finite at the beginning of a workday of which coincides with a modest timeframe of wakefulness is staggering.  The fact that when the sky is blue and the focus is micromanaged to life within gravity’s well, there is still a sigil in the form of a slice of rock in the sky that hints at something beyond, is humbling.  The fact that someone will never acknowledge that and look up is pure horror.  

That the god fearing folk will continue on the path, believing the status quo.  That people will stay in their various forms of safe houses without acknowledging the hunger for change.  That people will misinterpret this change and lay waste to themselves and their surroundings.  That many will approach zen methodically and doublethink themselves into a corner.   

In the meantime, I’m taking my time slow for my moments are few and far to give as they should be.  I like to say I’m building up an argument.  A plea to the divine powers for what its worth which is probably not much.  Lets get down to brass tax, gentlemen… and womenfolk if that is your nature.  Its time to build.  As my friend so eloquently pointed out in such an asshole-ish way… the great filmaker Tarkovsky once said the following: (and I’m paraphrasing… so fuck off.)

“Make a friend of solitude.”

Really… get down to the lowest common denominator.  Find yourself.  Enjoy the fact that you are you whoever that may be.  Resist the urge to feed off the crutches and training wheels.  Fly free and unfettered in the face of adversity to the point where its healthy.  

When its time, my friends… its time.  When you’ve learnt all there is to learn… you’ll know.

Until then, stay grifty.

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