WHY I WRITE? BECAUSE PEOPLE ARE FUCKING STUPID

By people being “fucking stupid” I assert nothing regarding intelligence, but observation of behavior. It IS quite a slight against the inane conduct of fellow homo sapiens within my circles.

Case in point: this writer lives in an area recently impacted by Hurricane Matthew. There was ample and plentiful warnings and instructions regarding the approach of the storm. As well, there was a cornucopia of opportunity to prepare.

Rather than prepare properly, those who chose to remain in the area after evacuation orders were issued hunkered down in mind-oblivion as the storm came through and then mercilessly abused everything in sight with her backside might.

This story is not a Hurricane Matthew experience. Hurricanes are a natural occurrence and pay a visit every now and then to those of us who live along coastal locales. So be it, no big deal. They are but thunderstorms on steroids. Yeah, they can kill ya, but so can a grizzly bear if you choose to hike in bear country.

No, this confabulation is inspired by the responses and behavior of the many who decided to ride out the storm. It is motivated by complaints of the non-ready who suffered from their own failure to take measures of common sense when opportunity to do so was amply available.

And the “suffering”? Bitching about the power being off and what was taking so long to restore it; food spoiling(ample time to buy ice and make ready to prevent it); cell phones dying(could’ve procured charging sticks); roads being blocked by fallen trees(where’s the surprise there?); favorite eating places not open(their power was off too, dumbasses) and such trivial matters of human annoyances(not dire problems).

So what the hell does writing have to do with any of it outside of the fact that I just pecked out the above?

It has to do with sanity, perhaps.

Sanity in that I do not live in an ivy league town. I reside not in Cambridge nor Oxford. I live in a small Southern town in the Bible belt of the U. S. of A.. A small town where at the big table of the local diner philosophical discussions are confined President Obama, old war stories and the latest deer kill.

So I write. I assemble mixed characters on screen or paper to share thoughts with you, the reader. Perhaps you can grasp what bubbles up from somewhere within me — expressions from the “soul”(or moreso some unlabeled cavern, or just nothingness). Maybe you can appreciate exploration of my inner self as it interacts now and has intercoursed over some 60 trips around the sun whilst slogging through the daily tasks of eathwise entityship.

Through stabs at authorship, perchance, I gain some imagination that there is an audience of intelligent folks whose interests rise beyond who is the big there-every-Sunday-churchgoer that’s sleeping with the married deacon.

I entertain the plausibility of anthropoids who relish exploring the inner space of homocentric indwellingness(and yes, I thoroughly utilized Rogets Thesaurus in this post). My word-arrows are aimed at one or more, possibly, who are less interested in the outer and comfortable levels of being and dare to enter the unknown path which leads into the damp cave; into the unknown(though there be no vacuum of knowing at any point).

That group of you whose vision can pierce that blackness to behold a door to the grail of organic knowledge: the well; the depository of unscripted, unvolumed pure mother wit.

The shit amazon.com doesn’t carry.

Yeah, so this one chronicles in hope that someone out there can see some bit of light in the sloppiness of lazy efforts.

Someone.

Anyone?

~ Jackson