Snobbin: Beautiful Trash in the Pop Culture Gutter

Give me life or something less explicit, as the receipt of my boring considerations April 26 is a day of little relevance, posting idly on the internet and floating between transit or transom, trying to maintain a fresh status in the queue of  extemporaneous age (what does that even mean?)  Pop psychology! (The pain) Illiterate (transposed) on a bed of dying critics (capitalism's nightmare  is just an invitation to create garbage (creating a world of carbon copies) What would Baudelaire or Baudrillard think? Build a decadent Disneyland  for your fucked up imaginings.  Rhizomes from another mother, as Deleuze and Guattari found out soon enough (These roots go deep, back to radical and conventional thinking) Buried in the soil mossing yet another stone that refuses to gather momentum. Yet it remains the same. The damn song remains the same. Take that Zeppelin.  Take that Postmodernism. (Are you a capitalized thought?) (Are you a capsized thought?) Take that F...

I used to be a wallflower at the punk show.  Standing in back like those cool people in that Jawbreaker lyric or Peter Parker, replete in sweater vest a tour song well defined. I watched everyone else participate, slunk in the corner like a ragdoll  in required black hoodie, shock of auburn hair, drooped over crooked glasses. '90s indie fashion or a Weezer video extra, the early days of emo.  A backpack possibly slung over my shoulder, and a lack of beer in my hand, made me stand out, an awkward clown, never a joiner. Even though I loved the volume of the music, the warmth of the room, distinguished from the blustery, wintery outside, I found it hard to join.  These states never get warm. The band never breaks a string. Once I finally joined and met the people in the room, I became a figure in the scene, with my own nickname and relevance. Seldom a band member, I was the eternal commenter, the guy who could talk records, a legend in my hometown. Like that irredeemabl...

I'm hoping to start writing regularly again, particularly beginning work on my first nonfiction book. It's been a long time coming. I've written numerous chapters/articles, blog posts, poems, a few failed book proposals, and other miscellanea but have never finished a longer work, unless you count the dissertation. Of course, numerous health challenges in the last few years have dampened this dream. My hands feel better after using wrist braces for my carpal tunnel, but I cannot type like I once did. They still hurt and are shaky. I've been having brain fog and a stuffy headache from the forest fire smoke. I feel like I'm moving in slow motion. I'm posting this for support and motivation to get back to it. I want to find the strength and energy to keep going. I miss writing the way I used to since it has been part of me for as long as I can remember. However, I made it into work for so long that I'm trying to find the fun again, along with the ability to phy...