Back in January, I felt like having a beer and writing. I didn’t want to go home, and I didn’t want to see friends. I didn’t want to think much, either. I went to a bar where I am not a common customer in hopes of not being recognized. That accomplished, I ordered a delicious session beer, and wrote the nonsense stream of words that came to me, for the pure enjoyment of their sounds. There was no thought to the writing other than directing the surfacing mental sounds to conclude into vocabulary. This practice was for the sake of flow, and I claim no meaning to the resulting stream of sentences. I am out of practice with thoughtful writing, and only wanted to re-visit the feel, and maybe purge an anomalous feeling of dissatisfied need.
“Are the cramming harbingers having any longing for the glory of holier bystanders in this blighted byway of malicious nastiness that is chimerically insisting on hanging a harder narcotic on the line than a liquid maker of nautical laundry? That is, bi-partisan narcissism is fully re-indorsed by more malevolent borers than portentous carcinogenic narcoleps. Portend, if one might, the post-climatic chemical in the night, in the blighted night, in the singular possibility of chlamydial night, the figure, the phalange, the pressing expresser of ignorance in naive intention. How may the hindering whole porpoise ply the interest of another knackful kindness in perpetual shivering of lycanthropic halitosis? With similitude, I say. With simulacrum of scintillating hang-nails and chamomile. With pretentious flakes of prepossessing charm and fulcrums navigating closer to scientific relations than emotive exploration. Good farings to the pre-explorative. Good care to the post-hopeful. Prepare to capture the will of those who always would commiserate to the benefit of intended success. Where are the wolves? Invisible when non-feral felinity presides. Wolf-mount, you will find the path of the ferocious forgetful nucleus of siblingry. A child, a progenitor, a co-patriot, dirigible of haggery – the title-less mess of delicious listless prognostication. Gorilla, Goliath, Gilgamesh, angle the crime of handling into a hamper of hiding, into a primeval portal of format that one might protrude into prescribed understanding of languid mare-upon-the-heath existence. Therefore, be three. Be two and another. Dare not plan-tend. Compare. A chair is there.”
When my small sheet of paper was finally completely filled, he indeed did speak into the gap between the action of hand-to-pen-to-paper. He asked if I were a writer. I replied, “I used to be.” He had finished his drink by then, and leaving, said something like, “You a damn sexy writer”. As much as I appreciated the compliment, I was glad the banter ended at that.
I decided to order another beer and enjoy my accomplished task. Beginning to feel less anti-social, I made a joyful remark to a gal I had met at the door on my way in. That led to a full conversation in which I learned that she grew up in a house that had once belonged to a family friend. She was 10 or more years younger than me, but we had both been girls in that house.
In summary, my evening of controlled chaos concluded in a wary confirmation of my attractiveness and/or ability to evoke “appearances” (as a “Writer”? Well, maybe…), and sharing a memory of a home with a happy stranger.