weird – marcwritesmoorewords

Words Like Whirling Dervishes …

What do I do with these words that swirl around my head, night and day, and night and day?

Whirling dervishes spiraling in ecclesiastical ecstasies of euphoria, subjects and predicates, subordinate clauses creating expansions of thoughts, blossoming into petals of prose, linking daisy chains of randomness together to form some fractal fractured pattern using common commas along with their elitist Oxford cousins combining phrases that trail off on tangents winding their way like Thorin’s company of thirteen through the Misty Mountains, the wrinkles of my cerebrum and cerebellum, that sometimes somehow find their way there and back again threading the needle to make my point – even if you find me a prick.

But a pragmatic prick who suffers from grammatical gigantism stuffed into my overfed overfat cranium. This over large head blooms sentence stems so big within that they beggar imagination.

What I want is what you wish.

So full I really wish my head would explode,

unless …

unless …

you’d care to be kind, and with your delicate hands you could hold this head gently. You could cradle it carefully. And maybe that might make the words slow down, your cooling hands on my fevered head to slow this mad merry-go-round. To silence this lunatic syllabic laughter.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful?

If that were to work?

You say my words are too much for you.

They are too much for me too.

Currently, in the Pocket.

Note: to drummers, when you’re playing and you feel locked in to the groove, playing not only on beat, but feeling that you are in the beat, and can manipulate it with fills and rolls of all speeds, and still land back on that beat without throwing the song off rhythm.

It’s a curious sensation, knowing that I can talk about myself, my life, with absolute clarity.

I take it for granted now.

Which is also its own kind of weird.

I’m able to talk about my life matter-of-factly.
I don’t talk about it to get pity. I don’t speak about it with frustration or rage. I’m not trying to make myself look like a saint.
I am grounded by the knowledge that I have no desire to please or impress others anymore.

My life is.

My life was.

Facts. Not emotion. Not sentiment. No color commentary.

The suffering I went through was mine. I made my choices. And I faced the consequences of those choices, good or ill.

And I don’t really know if it’s due to the three years of taking my medication for my adult ADHD and Major Depression finally taking effect, or if it’s the strength I gained from taking care of my father – or some combination of both.

But I’m in the moment.

I’m in the now.

I’m present, current. There’s no “what ifs” or “I should’ves.” There’s also no “one day I’ll” or “someday,” either.

And maybe, some of you might consider that a bad thing, and, depending on your circumstance, you may be right.

But I ride the waves.

I feather the wind.

I’m focused.

For the first time in my life, I focus on what’s in front of me, and addressing it, paying attention to it. As a result, it’s incredibly satisfying dealing with things as they come when they come, instead of ignoring it or trying to rewrite the narrative.

What a strange pleasure it is, and a metaphorical irony, playing drums for most of my life, and at forty-three, finally being in the pocket.

Is it weird?

Is it weird that I’m forty-three years old and I feel the most comfortable, the most “myself,” like this?

Is it weird that I feel like I truly do not fit into any category – especially as a straight male – and so I feel like I do not fit into this world?

Is it weird that I feel like I’m too young to be this old, while at the same time I feel like I’m too old to be this young?

Is it weird that my teenage boy heart that used to beat to the pounding truth of Pearl Jam beats to the pinning, yearning punch of Snail Mail now that I’m a forty-three year old man?

Is it weird?

Or is it me, in my isolation?

Do you feel like me?

Do you feel alone because you don’t feel like you “fit” into any acceptable social “category?”

Is it weird?

Or not?

Am I wrong?

Am I not alone?

If so, I would really love to know it.