The first two choices of songs by This Will Destroy You were “Threads” and “They Move On Tracks of Never-Ending Light,” but it cannot be remembered or quickly found, which one was used in a previous post. Both may have been used for all we know, but let’s play it safe (for once) and not use either of them. Let’s play “The World is Our ___” to safe grace.
Welcome to the 400th.
It’s not a big deal, 400. When you look at the archive, the dates go back to 2012. This shows and explains that I don’t blog daily. Blogger didn’t motivate me enough in retrospect. The platform is “eh,” and dealing with GoDaddy was and still is a sham. I still follow a few Blogger members, but Google half-assed this aspect in a significant fashion. Oh, bummer for them. The wordy posts with lack of style (which means just raw stream of conscious juiciness and angst and crap writing) and lack of pictures didn’t help. Much was learned from making the move here, from all of you fellow writers and the non-writers in regard to the feedback.
Thank you. You might be a bigger part of this blog than I am. That’s what we’re here to do: work well and inspire others … and entertain.
Before continuing, it’s nice to realize that I should be utilizing my Tuesday and Thursday posts better. Instead of just giving you the link to the Syracuse New Times contribution, talking about and giving insight about the post seems appropriate. There isn’t much talk about the purpose of writing on here, how my ideas are generated, and whatever rationale is recognized when constructing the posts. The SNT posts are a little more constructed, but still bank on stream of consciousness writing. After the post is completed, a little cut-and-paste action is utilized to shake things up a bit.
The main picture for this post is the notebook that was referenced in the previous post, the bound pieces of soft paper (you could sleep on it for a makeshift pillow). Hell, let’s show it anyway. Frankly, it looks better without the Pagan star and the half marble in the center of it. It’s more badass and raw. It’s a notebook. Indiana Jones (and Joe) would be proud.
It was nice to come across it, and now it’s being utilized. Sure, that statement leads to a preview of tomorrow’s post in the sense of disclosing that it was written in. The notebook was given to me by a person, someone to have to be dealt with on a regular basis. Due to this person’s duplicity and ability to undermine people while compelling others in order to get an upper hand … Well, we’ll just leave it at that.
To prove myself over it, keeping the notebook instead of recycling it, it finally has been written in after over a year.
Notebooks, as we writers know, are dangerous. They contain our thoughts, ideas, scribblings, drawings, sketches (written or etched), and importantly our process. Whether we are writing about writing, marketing, food, clothing, history, countries and culture, and/or lifestyle … these books are near and dear to us. They’re genuine knockoffs of Pandora’s Box, which can be found and purchased at an unreasonably low price on the streets of your closest big city. Instead of donning the Pandora name, they’ll read Bandora, Pandori, or Pandorai.
And handwriting our work is an art. Writing things out is an art that will seemingly get lost as time goes on. Script or cursive, however you want to call it, is practically not taught in schools anymore. So notes are replaced with emails. Calls are replaced with extensive and drawn out texts. Easy and convenient is the way to go, sadly. I like to work toward gratification. So does my buddy, Joe. Not only do I work with the guy with the marketing business, he is a fellow writer at SNT. He covers tech news and topics, and his latest piece says it all. His posts go out on Tuesdays and Thursdays as well. Yes, we’re constantly around each other even when we aren’t with each other.
Say hello, Joe. He’s a brilliant kid, and he has a Blogger blog as well. (One of those few followed.) Don’t mind his lack of updates. He’s a busy guy, and you can catch all his stuff at Kinani Blue and SNT.
Strange as it is (spoiler for tomorrow), I’ve been infatuated with The Hotel Syracuse. It’s uncertain if it can be told by my posts, but man, has there been a connection with it that is beyond my understanding. I visited the edifice on the way to meet up with my better half (not sure if we are “official” yet, but she’ll still be designated as that), and snapped a few pics for the post. I stared at the soon-to-be-rejuvenated hotel with wonder. Happens every time.
Off to Franklin Square, my car was driven. To a bench, my person was parked. The new ratty notebook was opened and christened.
And there we go. Words were inked on that first page like none other. The rhetoric and thoughts and observations spilled fluidly. Two posts were made. The meatier section is about The Hotel Syracuse. The second part was considering the worse for the relationship, and hoping some deus ex machina would fall into place to save the relationship.
Oh, yeah. That.
Communication is important. In regard to the dating situation, well, there may have not been a continuation if last night had turned out differently, if a stop wasn’t put in place and if she wasn’t asked to have a beer.
I’ve been in panic mode. The mind has been turbulent again in all honesty, and progression seems to have changed into a regression, which is causing me to walk backwards. Everyone is still passing by, but I stepped on the wrong platform at the airport. Instead of moving fluidly ahead, my feet are tripping over the speeding platform.
Arriving early at the faithful The Blue Tusk, my plan was to read for fifteen minutes to kill time. She was there, early, as well. She walked up in a dress, which she has preferences for — and she can pull them off perfectly, elegantly — and my first thought was fear and regret for wanting to end it that night. We walked in, took a seat, and talked it out for a few minutes. My part was said, and we were going to leave it at that. Stepping out of the door, it was hard watching her walk away, and this was literally happening in front of me. With each step, I was still behind. Then she was going to go. Finally, it was suggested that we get the beer and talk it out.
It was a needed talk. I would have really missed her if that didn’t happen.
Her eyes. Her sighs. Her laugh.