The Perfect Swarm

Sometimes all you have is a title; a pleasing twist of syllables that quickly eclipses any new digits you were trying to remember. Dwell on it well in hopes that title will grow into a notion. Feather your focus, steady your perspective and iris up until the idea shines in your mind like a neon sign. Jot down a thought during red lights and you just may drive off with the jist of an epistle, a linear little ditty with a chorus you can hum ‘til you slump down in front of your keyboard that night and pound it into a post. Those are the good days. Lately, there haven’t been enough good days. But I’ve been at this writing thing long enough to know a little dry spell isn’t any real reason to fret. If I could control the clouds that hinder my vision, I wouldn’t be chauffering a camera around town. I’d be some blowhard on a podium, a pasty cat in elbow patches referring to my own turgid text as if it some kind of sacred scroll worthy of time capsule inclusion. I hate those guys! They’re why I never got serious about higher ed; that and that whole showing up to class on a predetermined schedule concept. What up with that? I’d much rather jump into a crusty news car, document trauma by day, fashion tripe by night. That’s precisely what I’ve been doing for quite some time now and while I have no immediate plans to cease or even desist, you should know I’m not exactly in control.

I love to write. I hope that it shows. But while my adoration for prose knows no bounds, I’m less than enamored with the manner in which the words come my way. Take right now for instance. I’m not really sure what the hell I’m here to talk about tonight. I kinda know my closing line and the voice in my head is famiiar enough that I can sometimes finish his sentences, but for the most part I’m dictating whatever pops in my head. That anyone reads this undiluted poop is both a travesty and a treasure for if I were more prudent about what I publish, my site reader would be quite higher and just maybe I wouldn’t cringe every time I parse my archives. As it is, even the most cursory review leaves me crestfallen, for what felt damn good upon delivery doesn’t always age so well. I suppose that’s only natural and were I more mature, I might just learn to rewrite. For now however, I can only seem to stare into the void, figure out a way to hit my imaginary deadline and keep moving before that pest on the assignment desk figures out there’s a photog lurking about with nothing much to do. All of which makes me a natural born shooter, I guess. We who must not be named on-air aren’t ones to loiter. We’re much more at home behind the wheel of some lacquered hoopty, racing from molehill to imbroglio with little more than scanner codes and a growing jones...

Speaking of the Joneses, I’m through keeping up with them. Instead I’m gonna remain at my own pace, contributing to this living compendium just as often as I can muster without letting it make me bat-shit crazy. Generous visitors of some vintage will recognize this text as my semi-regular promise to do better in the future. No doubt they’ll roll their eyes when they realize I’m writing about not writing again. That is their every right, as is forsaking this very address for time better spent perusing the hoochie parade the likes of TMZ . That’s cool. Hell, I visit ew.com every week for the sole purpose of guffawing along with their always cheeky Survivor recaps; who am I to judge? Besides, those who’ve endured my purple prose for the worse part of the past half decade know I got their back. Soon after I lift the curtain and bitch about how hard all these levers are to pull, I usually rally with a few paragraphs I’d strap to the back of a flying monkey if only it allowed me to mangle one more metaphor. So here’s to you steady web traveler. Knowing you poke your head in here once every fortnight leaves me humbled, stoked and more than a little tortured. But what does all this have to do with the marqueed melee, the acclaimed gang-bang, the number one scrum? I dunno...

Sometimes all you have is a title.