wanna babble

sometimes i just wanna babble and other times i sit down to write something specific and serious and i just go on and on and around and around and without thinking about anything i find myself rambling into babble even more than when i actually wanna babble and if i was to pose the question to myself right now at this moment i would not be certain of the precise answer except for the fact that i am here as opposed to being elsewhere and it could be in part due to the reference to this entry in this blog by a randomly spammed comment that has me thinking about the time i would come here daily to let my mind dump whatever might come to it (mind, that is) as i let the fingers tap the keys directed only by the momentary words that come to and out of the mind as it dumps whatever might come to it (mind, that is, pay attention boy, i say, stop playing with that thing and pay attention), if you don't mind (or even if you do, you chose to come here, after all)...

for those of you not playing with your sweet potato tots, you might find a familiar breeze blowing through your innards (or soul, if you want to go there) as you read and yet, i confess and identify the energy level is way lower than it used to be mostly because the body is at that blah bloat end of the physical spectrum and it is a bit older than it was last time i was rambling on without thought or reason (oh no, not blind faith?... but then, what else is there within one's own mind, logic?) and there are injuries as well distracting the reckless abandon that was once just the way it was so high stepping exercise does not happen nearly as often as it did when i was steam showering daily as the sad news reality is every year i become just a little more normal or average or whatever everybody strives for in this conformist culture but fear not, for the mind still rebels and accepts no phoney baloney for long...

it was years ago, but seems like only last year, or maybe a lifetime, that i left this daily babbling behind (and this one before this one and and this one before that one, among others, even ya know?) for this one now playing that was and still is supposed to be briefer but contains almost as much babble (maybe more if you happen upon them) in more than 4200 entries (yes, forty-two hundred ninety something, if fact) as this or the previous blogs (which would include diaries at diaryland and journals at livejournal and babbling in dozens of other locals as well) because my efforts to be brief, as noble and sincere as they may be, never stopped the babbler from the mini-babble or from breaking babble up into ten or twenty entries a day instead of one very long one (see what i mean?) and the free associative nature of babble still rises above the expressed desire to focus on actual daily life communicating (even though more complaining may be infiltrating the positivity of the landscape, but that is just me finding my way back to me {and my shadow of sorts [hello darkness my old friend?] and the cha cha cha, la la la, dance of the whispering wombats, or something like that} after stepping in the excremental droppings of life with humans as it is today {and parenthetic asides}, after all) whether i was awakened by a strong odor of poop or not...

sometimes, in the middle of the night, the world appears so much clearer and expressing that clarity is the last thing on my mind so everything flows into a stream of consciousness that even i might not be able to comprehend if i found time to re-read myself or if someone actually read something i wrote and asked me to explain specific rambles or passages or some such collections of words and babble and yet, somewhere in my head the answers can be found by the one who really wants to push just the right buttons (and those are a secret, but not negativity or controlling) and just because nobody ever did does not mean that nobody ever will so many of the secrets are linked (and boxed, no less) within the threads that make the tapestry (and dreams too) of the written gardens and the scattered music (that keeps getting left behind, like a heart that floats on the winds of hope and chance) playing (albeit silently at times throughout the journey that is as it is as expressed in the babble that is the momentary tip of the metaphoric iceberg of writing you are reading as you read these words and whenever else you might read wherever else you might go from here, hats on or off, as you wish...

and whether you would like to swing on a star or carry moonbeams home in a jar you are still better off than you are and suddenly, everything might stop











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