It was back to ink on vacant pages. Back to fumblingly toting around a black notebook guarded as if it contained nuclear launch codes. I was out to privatize my thought, a luxury I assumed I had foregone by exposing myself to the blogosphere. The initial energies that boasted a cure-all for the mental manifestations were drained and weary.The pages started to fill, much more than I had imagined, and the black book grew larger. Soon I had purchased a tabloid art book and maniacally proceeded to cast scriptures on its pur blanc exterior. It swelled with ideas, hurt, exuberance, and questions. It felt great. It intoxicated me fulfilling my addictive enigmatic pleasure.

However it did something else I wasn’t prepared for. It did nothing? Writing has always been a release for me. I’m quite certain there is a reason the market for diaries, or journals if you’re Medomalacuphobic guys, has remained for centuries. There is certainly a healing and visual reward for being able to see what you think.

What the blogosphere afforded me was therapy. This giant world was my soothing taupe office adorned with darkened mahogany pinnacled with the cliché brass buttoned leather sofa. I wouldn’t always visit it seeking deep expression but sharing my perspective was satisfying on many levels.

As an individual it is very hard to embarrass me. That characteristic is one that I cherish deeply. There is NOTHING in this world you can’t laugh about later. As human beings we all strive for perfection among ourselves but the reality of the situation is this, we all fart.

I use the cardinal unsettling art of flatulence as a metaphor for everything that seems unfit and embarrassingly perceivable as a capability unrighteous enough for human operation. Regardless of your sex, race, age, or social stature the eventuality of it all is WE ALL stink up the room from time to time. I’m not saying it’s acceptable to cut one in a crowded church during a solemn funeral, but the rationality of the situation is, it happens. You can either curl up and die, or say “gee you shoulda seen the look on that old blue hair’s face in the third pew”. They say the average human farts fourteen times a day, so according to social acceptance there alone is fourteen times you could potentially publicly unease yourself. That’s just one variable in the list of things you do daily that would make others blush.

Embarrassment happens. Life happens. That life that happens all around us is an equation balanced by our interaction with the outside world. My daily professions on the blog are no more private than what has brought me to that point in the public domain. My expression of life is no more revealing than the additional lives that observed it while life happened.

Getting back to my initial point, the sudden privatization of this lexis improved nothing. My eyes were the only visceral critics and the satisfaction that lay before had vanished. I wasn’t shunted naked into the street with a big sign that said, “This being is fucked up” and instructed to deal with it. Instructed to manifest a course of action for survival. In a sick way this adaptation exhilarates me and I think that’s why the gratification of the blog is all encompassing.

Anyways, for those of you who find my venue of illustrative life entertaining, I’m back! Read forth….

“Eccentricity is not, as dull people would have us believe, a form of madness. It is often a kind of innocent pride, and the man of genius and the aristocrat are frequently regarded as eccentrics because genius and aristocrat are entirely unafraid of and uninfluenced by the opinions and vagaries of the crowd.”