Blank page inducing blank mind

Every night I try to write and some nights it comes up okay other times it doesn't. Usually my cat wants to play in the midst of all of it so I toss a toy until he's satisfied. Then I return to write something but there's nothing worse that a blank screen. I start and stare and think, why did I decide to write. Can't I just take a single night off. No one will really know if I do because, let's face it, this blog is really for my own benefit and pleasure.

So, I spend the time thinking of other things that I could be doing, not because I want to be doing something else, but because I can't think of how to rectify the blank screen. I've written this summer, I know I have, but that's thesis stuff and fanfiction that I've somehow been drawn back into.

I thought about writing a story about a duck that somebody ran over and what kind of person would do such a thing, but I couldn't think of anything beyond: "Who is the one that would not for a duck stop? It's sound great as an opening line, but only is of use if you can go further and perhaps tell the story of the one person who just kept going. Maybe there are some ducklings out there that are plotting revenge on the person for killing their parent. I imagine Huey, Dewey and Louie huddled around plotting their revenge. I don't know what that plot would be, but I imagine it would be a doozy just because it's them. I'd like to see that revenge. I once had a near run-in with raccoons, but I quickly turned around to go the other way because I could only imagine then running after me as I ran around campus, trying not to be bit by the rabid creatures. It was an amusing image, but not one that I would want to be a part of.

My cat is back with his toy. He's really a good cat and he likes to play with the dogs. In fact, we often refer to him as a dog because he runs and plays with them like a dog.

None of this qualifies as a story of any sort, but I couldn't decide what else to write and I've still got a Star Trek blog post to write. So, I needed to get something down, which means a freewrite, which is likely of no interest to anyone. But, this is what you get.

Wirst du fragen?

There's the daily compulsion she feels.
There's the hourly compulsion she feels.

They never ask.

And she never tells.

Because 

they never ask.

Niemand fragt.

Niemand

Every

Each

Single

One

One

The

ONE

fragt

nicht.

Wirst du fragen?

Insert Something Profound Here

0530 get up.
0531 dog whines.
0532 dog(s) hungry.
0555 feed dog(s).
0600 let dog(s) out.
0610 back in bed.
0730 shower.
0740 dress.
0750 feed cat.
0800 eat breakfast.
0820 wash dishes.
0840 go to store.
0930 pay for groceries.
0945 arrive home.
1000 put away groceries.
1015 play with dog(s).
1030 give dog(s) snack.
1100 write.
1200 eat lunch.
1230 wash dishes.
1300 water plants.
1320 write.
1500 sweep.
1510 vacuum.
1530 write.
1700 feed cat.
1710 write.
1800 feed dog(s).
1810 watch news.
1830 play with dog(s).
1900 watch TV.
2000 eat dinner.
2030 wash dishes.
2040 play with dog(s).
2100 write
2300 feed dog(s) snack.
2359 go to sleep.

I deleted the whole page, a hypertext

Something a little different tonight. The story is not here, but on a webpage. It is a hypertext story. Follow the link below to get to the start.

I deleted the whole page

Superlatives

The best
The worst
The tallest
The shortest
The biggest
The smallest
The smartest
The dumbest
The most
The less

The they said

The

Rule

of

(the)

One

 

The I in the third person

The they, the eye, not the I, becomes the I. The I that she once was is merely the moniker by which she refers to herself. The I in the third person. I am becomes I is. In the past, in a look at the past, there never was a difference. The I was, that is the I in the third person was always I was. She was- I was.

I

In the third person, she becomes the they, the they that compelled she must have a friend. The they wrote to have a friend one must be a friend. To be a friend one must have a friend.

What would the they say?

Change.

Change begets I in the third person.

It is the rule of one.

What would the they say?

Change.

 

How?

 

The Rule of One

Today is the rule of one.
The rule of one says she is not one.

Who is one?

The Rule of One.

One has won.

Who is one?

I

II

III

IIII

IIIII

IIIIII

IIIIIII

IIIIIIII

not

The Rule of One

has won.

Who

is

one?

Am I?

                                                                                                                     Am I?

                                               Am I?

                                                                              Am I?

                                                                                                                                         Am I?

                  Am I?

                                                                                               Am I?

The I knot- the knot eye 

                                     equals not the I.

The

Eye

is

One

Who is one?

The

Rule

of

One

       

One

One:

being as single entity, unit, object, or living being

The they say think what the they would say.

The they think, breathe, move,

                                                        act

as 1

I

act

I                         

act                        

I                                             

act                                             

I                                                                       

act                                                                       

One:

charactarized by unity; undivided

The the say act as not the I.

One:

single; lone, not two or more

One:

distinct from all others; only; unique

at one with:

in a state of agreement or harmony

off on one:

exhibiting bad temper; ranting

one and all:

everyone, WITHOUT exception

The they says not the I.

Simple cinnamon satisfaction

The daily pummeling of each memory tires her. Each memory assaults over and over.

Stop.

Stop.

They return later. 

                              Pummeling.

                                   Pummeling.

                                                                          Pummeling.

Persistent pummeling.

The curse is cryptic enough that she doesn't comprehend.

What has she done?

What has she done?

What has she done?

What has she done?

What has she done?

Could she have stopped it?

                              Pummeling.

                                   Pummeling.

                                                                          Pummeling.

Stop

Stop

Stop

 Stop 

Stop

Stop

 Pots

                              Pummeling.

                                   Pummeling.

                                                                          Pummeling.

Simple 

cinnamon 

satisfaction

Whirring at one past midnight

A minute after midnight, I awoke to a whirring sound.  Inches from my nose was a white paddle, the one from the mixer that I use on a daily basis.  The whirring stopped once I opened my eyes.  Seconds later, when I failed to move, the whirring started again, turned up to ten, which was really eight.  Someone had worn out nine and ten two or three years ago.  Why didn't the mixer put his paddle in their face.  They did more damage than I.

At the intense whirring, I pushed myself into a sitting position quickly, my back firmly against the wall.  Despite my acknowledgment of fear, the mixer continued spinning the paddle.  No more than a minute later, he let out a whine, almost as if in pain.  But that wasn't possible.  He was a mixer, made of metal and plastic, designed to serve a purpose.  Emotions were not part of his program.

Medicinal Poison

A poison flows through the veins.  It changes things, alters in unexpected ways.  Abnormal ways.  The outcome is measured as success.  But not by all.  The poison is a medicine.  The results are unwanted.

Compelling nothingness

Someone tells me I have to try.  They say I have to do more than try.  I want to, but no is infinitely more compelling.  The far easier method is to lie here, waiting for something to happen.  Nothing will though because nothing ever happens.  I try, I really do.  I force myself, but ultimately I return to lying about because nothing is more appealing.

Sanctuary

The sanctuary fades, disappears.  It’s lost forever as they swiftly and without care destroy it.  Only one sheds a lone tear at the sight.  The one becomes nothing, left to the ravages of the world.

Life Blood

It courses through

the veins becoming

my life

blood

Ought I

panic

Ought

I say this

isn’t right

What if

this

is?

Prism Being

The wall is blue, but I am not.  I am a rainbow, a prism.  Turn the wheel and every slice applies.  Yellow for pain; green for frustration; red for annoyance.  Anger is tan, sometimes teal.  What is happiness?  Happiness is nothingness.  Can nothingness exist?  What if nothingness is a fallacy, a ferocious fake?  Does that mean that happiness is too?  Does happiness exist?  Can it exist in a world of somethingness?  What is somethingness?  Something is nothing and nothing is something.  What does this mean for happiness?

Humaness of Memories

Memories assault

Inflict invisible wounds

No god answers my plea

None dare respond

I am not worth it

The humanness of my is

transparent, absent

None understand, comprehend

The assault continues

as I seek an eternal

solution.

Waiting

It flees from me like a child flees from cough medicine.  I run and run, mentally of course because I haven’t the energy to physically run.  So I lie here in wait.  Waiting for something.  It or death.  Today I don’t care which arrives first.  Without creativity I have nothing.  No use, no purpose.  Writing is my sole purpose in this life.  It is all I can do that has worth.

Pandora

She was a fly on the wall to her own death.  She laid there, life flowing easily from the wrists.  She’d finally opened the box, Pandora would approve, except that naught would remain and the box would never close.

The Singer and the Voice

A single voice fills the silent room.  It sings, but there’s no music.  The words cannot be distinguished.  It sets the tone of the room, nonetheless.

Disarray that makes sense to only one.  An outsider sees heaps of nothing.  No care or regard for any possession.  One sees order.  Prized items and things of meaning placed carefully in seemingly haphazard piles.  Things of no meaning stashed out of view.  Necessity holds a corner, begrudgingly granted.  Strangeness shrouds it, gives necessity a yellow aura.  It never had need before, never offered an invitation.  Necessity spent years sulking in the corner.

The voice continues, bouncing off the walls, stark of meaning and piles of necessity.  The only accompaniment is the growing tick of the clock.  It falls silent on occasion, but never fails to remind of boring necessity.

Needs and wants are useless.  Do is the only thing of importance.  Action conquers stasis in a swift boxing match.  The result leaves stasis drooling and bloodied, unconscious on the dirty mat.  There are no cheers.  Everyone bet on stasis.  Entire fortunes lost with a single throw of the clenched fist.

Does do care?  Ought it?  Is it really fair that all want their money back?  Does ignorance warrant special treatment?

Do does not want.  It has no need.  It simply is.  it does because that is life.  It goes to work, pays the bills, feeds the family dog, kisses the wife after a well-cooked meal, pats the kids on the head, impregnates the wife again.  Do does not know because it does.  Do does nothing.

Life begins, life ends.  The cycle requires nothing, yet do goes about because of nature, habit.  It cannot stop.  Do continues until it dies, keels over from something.  It never wanted to reset, not even when frail.  It did not ask to live.  Do died because it had to be done.  In death, do was done.

Every do continued.  Mindless drones.  Instilled with directions to do.  Nothing would change because do always did.  Do never thought, never said what if.  Because do never considered possibility, it never sought after.

Necessity is a waste.  It allows for the sloth.  Do never wants for something because necessity is a waste.

Want is dangerous.  Want asks eternally.  Want can never be sated.  It encourages red, calls upon green.  Nothing comes from want.  But do does not know this because it never wants.

What does the voice want?  The singer wants money because it needs to live.  It wants to live.  The singer wants attention, which it needs to inflate self-worth.  The voice demands nothing.  It has no need or want.  It does because that is what it is supposed to do.  It knows of nothing else.  It thinks of no alternative.  Voice is an instrument.  It does because of another’s want, need. 

Do does not think of the fairness of this.  The voice has no voice and wants not for one because it does not know want.  It simply is.  But the voice is not static.  It does because that is what it does.

The singer and the voice are intertwined, forever linked.  The voice does not know this.  The singer does because it needs and wants.

They cloud the vision of the singer.  Visible invisibility.  The singer does not know this because it knows what it wants and needs.  The voice has clarity, but sees it naught because it does not think.  It merely does.

Which is better?  Does the singer claim superiority because it knows?  Because it wants?  Does necessity make it better?  Is the voice better off because it does?  It has no need or want.  It needs nothing because it does not know want or need.

Who can judge?

Who dare determine superiority?

Do cannot because it does not think.  Is it fair to let stasis decide?  The singer will side for itself out of necessity and want.  But does it need superiority?  Does it really want it?  How does the singer know what it wants?  How can it determine its needs?  The singer sees both as necessity.  It is necessary to want and need.  Need and want lead to something greater, but it never finds that something because it does not know its needs and wants.  The singer does nothing while voice does without though because it has no need or want.  It seeks nothing more than to do.

Who dares to place judgement?

Butternut Squash

Butternut squash smashed to smithereens on the highway.  Brownish-yellow the color of butternut squash mars the road, covering the smear of blood from the fatal wreck earlier today that killed a generation.