Good Prevails

As of late my contributions to cubanizm have for the most part had a real fucking air of depression to them. I guess that makes you all victims of my victimized personal space. My apologies. Shit has not been all that swell as of late and that whole optimism thing doesn't always work out so well. Writing is a little therapeutic and at times I can often unleash wordy solemn entries.

I wasn’t exactly sure what I wanted to do with this site when I first registered it. However, it quickly after I started it became apparent that slowly flourishing was a digital scrapbook and journal of sorts. I questioned whether putting myself out there was too much of a self invasive move and was not sure how much of myself I would really want to make public. Most importantly what to do with the fact that I do not live my life in the confines of a bubble but am in fact connected to a lot of stories that aren’t always mine’s alone to share.

It is not easy to always to be ethical or adhere to principles of confidentiality, or for that matter, principles period. Often time just being able to look someone privately in the eye and know they know you know more then they care for you to know about them, or even better, have the right to look at them and think, “bro, you kind of suck and you know that I know so”, is reward enough in itself. Only problem with that is that dissonance often makes assholes unable to assume any wrong doing and major assholes also often seem immune to the you-suck stares because they don’t realize they suck until much too late in life. Yet, even assholes of the smelliest and shityest type, should not have power to in turn make assholes out of you and me.

Hence, I limit myself to little metaphorical rants of wordy misspelled run on sentences that result in confusing narratives of considerable length which often time only make sense to either myself and those directly involved.
This afternoon, I lost myself to a therapeutic draft of epic length that started on what seemed like an elevated spiritual tone of tolerance, compassion and forgiveness but little Buddha lost his way under the joshua tree and it quickly became apparent that I would rather have been writing about the lies, theft, defamation, the self pleasuring of body cavities, cheating, sex, deceit, hypocrisy, revenge, mind games, blasphemy, tax evasion, elicit sex, prostitution, retribution, and crap that often surrounds a good deal of people.

I overanalyzed a whole lot on a lot of shit I have dealt with as of late and that resulted in me dishing out one continuous wicked spew of diabolical proportions. I started with the letter A and worked my way down to Z, mentioning and naming each and every single spite I have for every single last motherfucker that has rubbed me the wrong way or caused the burden of a chip to my shoulder this last and very difficult year. It was long. It was real. It was revealing. It was destructive. It resulted in elevated levels of serotonin and wonderfully creative imaginary scenarios of what such chaotic action might result in.

My Jiminy Cricket witnessed, gagged and bound as the cat kept watch. Behemoth played composer to an orchestra composed of the snoring sounds of sleeping little buddha, key strokes at much too fast a pace, the clanking sounds of Pandora’s box unfolding, the slow breathing of a man who had just snapped, the wails that came forth from the opening gates of purgatory, the rushing sounds of plasma and bombardment of cellular forms in my aorta, the sudden sporadic giggle of one too pleased with his own evil, the clashing sounds of angels and demons and the untimely buzzing of an innocent fly that crossed my path, ending the entire concerto with a deadly newspaper splat that landed conveniently on the forehead of the resigning Donald Rumsfeld’s featured picture.

There are times I write, as I have done so today and that there is no way in hell I could post what my little fingers spelled out along the keyboard. No matter how angry or lost I feel, I am never able to release all the gossip, stabs, twofaced antics, vengeful spews of verbal diarrhea, the names (the thought make me shutter), and dirty dirty little secrets that I am purview to, must never be unleashed. Least it results in the catalyst to a cataclysm that might result in the demise of the fashionable use of lamé fabrics, the use of “miss thing” as a term of endearment, Home an Garden Television, the spread of gonorrhea in truck stops, half the audience of American Idol, equal marriage rights controversies, the sell of Cher albums, Michael Jackson impersonations, tasteful eccentricity, the use of Rhinestones by anyone not called grandma, needless lip augmentations, the wearing of Versace paisley shirts, the consumption of fuzzy navels by anyone other then a high school girl, after-hours worth mentioning, etc; Pretty much all of homo homo-sapiens life as we know it.

But, I then hit the select all command and after a quick menacing laugh hit delete, took a long pensive breath somewhere between Nirvana and Hades before astro-projecting back to the Yusef, that often time isn’t as easy to be.

Good Prevails.