Ashlandsblog

There was a time in life when it was apparent that every man needed some time alone. It’s less obvious now. You’d have to rip open a space in a consciousness to get it. I do miss the days when I was free from spectators. Cold night, and walking in circles. But walking was never walking; it was searching.

And then you bring someone else into the mix and it all goes terribly. All of a sudden I have to adjust my pace, listen to their perspective, pretend to care, and they stop to pee. Motherf*ckers always ruin my tempo.

Thinking, to me, is like Jazz music. It exceeds analysis. It relies on intuition and action. You do what you do and you deal with it. So when I have someone asking me questions about how I come to some conclusion, I have to bite my tongue. You’re either a thinker or you’re not. Non-transferable skills, buddy. The post doesn’t even make coherent sense. I’m addressing an imagined adversary, a disappointing former companion, my sister who never asks for ketchup and gets me to ask for it.

Spectators everywhere. In no man’s land is anyone ever alone. Put your hand out, there’s always people reaching.