Tuesday, August 13, 2019

Why am I writing this again?

     For a while now, I've been referring to myself as "Uncle P." I've had any number of nieces and nephews, at least one of which isn't even related to me by blood, call me Uncle P.  For a long time, I've hated people referring to me as "P" because I wasn't comfortable with sharing a nickname with a bodily function involving the elimination of body waste.  As far as nicknames go, My sainted mother used to call me "Lovebird." I'm not sure why. Maybe because I was the only one of her kids that didn't drive her crazy when I was growing up. I'm glad that she never called me Lovebird in public. I'd never live it down.  I'd had at least one brother call me "Souphead" My father called me "Knucklehead."
       I had a couple kids at elementary school call me "Professor" because they thought I was smart and I wore glasses. I went by Boo-Boo and Rerun in the service.  Now, I call myself Uncle P. But not in the perverted creepy sort of uncle way, but more like the oddball uncle who says weird stuff off the top of his head and everybody just smiles, nod their heads while wishing that he'd go off into his own corner and leave the rest of them alone.

Why am I writing this again?

       I guess I'm just the person who puts weird shit on Facebook to give his friends a break from the incessant drumbeat of negativity, politics, divisiveness, brokenness and and chaos on Facebook. I try to bring a smile to people's faces, lighten their hearts, give them grist for their mental mills, make them laugh. I write weird shit.
        God, thru CCAC and Robert Morris, gave me a gift to take the letters that make up the alphabet soup in my mind, arrange them into readable words and put them out here so people can read them, and know that the world isn't just a constant barrage of ads, memes, political sewage, hot takes, a never ending parade macabre of death, crime, man's inhumanity to man, and soul killing nastiness. We need a break from this flood of fetid flotsam and jetsam that threatens to sweep us away into despair, depression and depravity. We need to laugh, dammit! To feel good. To love ourselves and our friends.

Why am I writing this again?

      I write weird shit. I'm told I'm pretty good at it. Gotta figure out how to get paid to write weird shit. But like a great home cook who's friends rave about their cooking and hound them into opening a restaurant only for the place to close after a year because they find out that their friends were the only people who dug their food and the rest of the world thought it was crap. I can't assume everybody else likes it. And I can't commit to a weekly column, because I can't turn my creative process off and on like a light switch. It's spontaneous, it shows up when it feels like it. I can't write to a deadline or a page or word count, or a quota. It may be a paragraph or three pages. A hundred words or three thousand.  Like this thing. My writing style is wordy.  I write long rambling screeds like this.

Why am I writing this again?

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