Whether a habit, a self-imposed obligation, or a response to the real or imagined expectations created by my own routines, I feel compelled to write for this blog every morning. When—for whatever reason—I do not, I feel a sense of guilt. And disappointment. And failure. And general unease or anxiety or…something…that casts a minor pall over the day. So, I write. Even if the collection of words is no better than meaningless drivel, writing anything is better than leaving the screen blank. Many days, even though I am dissatisfied with what I write, I make the post viewable to fulfill my imaginary obligation. That behavior represents a kind of twisted logic—a response to a gnarled thought process that warrants intervention. But I would miss the process and the behavior if I were to correct it. I would long for even the absent discomfort of disappointment and failure. Therein lies evidence of a form of neurosis or psychosis that might cause even professional mental health counselors to recoil in disgust. So, I write.
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Yesterday, when I began writing my blog post, I intended to record my thoughts on the intensity of the darkness between, and without, stars. As is so often the case, though, I allowed myself to get sidetracked. This morning, of course, I cannot recall precisely what I was thinking when I began writing. I do remember, though, that the subject of my planned post came to me in the middle of the previous night. I remember thinking “I should document this before it dissolves into the mist of sleep.” But I did not write it down. I do not keep a notepad and pen on the nightstand next to my bed. Because if I did, I would need the light of a lamp to illuminate the paper; and that might disrupt my sleeping partner. The topic did not dissolve before I started writing yesterday’s post; but some of its most appealing aspects have since disappeared. Deep in the recesses of my mind, I believe profound thoughts about darkness linger. One day, or one night, those thoughts will emerge again and I will plan to record them, in writing. I must remember to buy a pen with a light embedded in its tip so I can comfortably document my thoughts in the near-complete darkness of night.
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For reasons too convoluted to try to explain here, I want to view a 1974 film by Sam Peckinpah entitled, Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia. I would like to host a small (5-10 person) viewing party, fueled by shots of premium tequila and a spread of elaborate, over-the-top nachos. The film was included in a 1978 book entitled The Fifty Worst Films of All Time. The book was largely panned by knowledgeable film critics, including Hal Erikson who suggested the book qualified as The Worst Movie Book Of All Time. I have, as usual, drifted away from the intent of this paragraph. My judgments of films are unreliable and usually based on irrelevant criteria spun from my emotional reactions, not from critical inquiry and assessment. Having read a bit about what others have said, pro and con, about Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia, I will watch the film from a biased point of view, but my opinions are easily swayed by others and by high-end liquor…a good reason to view the film as part of a collection of other people.
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Time for avocado toast and a cold mocha-flavored Ensure. I look forward to a time when I can return to normalcy and discard forced consumption of drinks meant to keep me from falling into a bottomless hole of nutritional emptiness.
