I went once.

I don't know why.

Something to do I suppose.

It's not like I really expected to meet anyone special, even though that's what the brochures kept promising.

After all, anyone smart enough to be there would have been smart enough to stay the fuck away from me.

And so it was.

There were some pretty strange people there though.

Most of them were pretentious assholes.

I guess there wasn't any room left in their heads for social niceties.

I thought I'd already written this entry, months ago. I distinctly remember writing bits and pieces of it. But a search of my old entries finds nothing, and a search of that folder on my desktop where I keep drafts of entries finds nothing, so maybe I'm insane. Again. Still. Whatever.

What I want to write about represents a pretty big divergence from my usual drivel. It's also a pretty big divergence from anything that I'm even remotely qualified to write about.

But, as they say, oh well.

I want to write about writing.

Please stop laughing.

Seriously.

Okay, thanks.

Every now and then I'll write something that I like. I mean really like. Every now and then I manage to impress myself, and if you know me at all then you know that this is a precious and improbable feat. Not only because I'm not easily impressed, but also because I know that I'm capable of much better.

In my head I'm a fucking poet beyond compare.

Anyway, what I wanted to write about was one of the components that those things which I like have in common.

Rhythm.

"But Dave," you might say. "You're white! By definition, you have no rhythm."

And I'd have no argument for that.

Maybe rhythm is the wrong word. Maybe flow would be better. Don't ask me, I just winging all this anyway.

These three sentences, for example, they flow. They dance together. They have rhythm.

These two sentences are boring. They just sit here wishing they weren't so lame.

I used to know a girl. Well, maybe I still know her, and maybe I never knew her at all. Whatever. The point is that everything she ever did had rhythm. Every word she said, every move she made, everything just flowed from her onto my soul like syrup onto pancakes.

See that there? That's why I don't like similes. Because I suck at them.

This girl fancies herself a writer. Or at least she used to, back when I might have known her. Now, I gather, not so much. And that's a shame.

I've never read anything she wrote, the reasons for that are unfortunate and numerous and probably boring to everyone but me. I never got to read a single word. And that's a disaster to me.

But I've gotten sidetracked. This entry is supposed to be about me and some of the things that I write. And that rhythm thing.

My heart, like that of most people I suppose, is possessed of a very short and very specific memory. I know that I've written about this before. It will remember the facts surrounding a series of events, but it will not, cannot, remember what it was actually like to actually feel that way it felt when those events took place.

Did that make any sense?

Probably not.

Okay, example time.

In 1988, my mom died. I was sad. I remember being sad. But what I can't do is just conjure up that sadness from memory, except in an abstract and objective way. What I have to do, if for some reason I want to bring that sadness back and experience it subjectively, is I have to relive it. So I wrote an entry about that night my mom died. And now, now I can relive that night and that pain and that sadness whenever I want to.

That entry, I like. I like it because it not only allows me to do what had been denied for almost 20 years, but also because it flows. It has rhythm. It reminds me of that girl that I maybe used to know.

I can read that entry and, in my head, the words dance together. They glide through my head as I silently mouth them. That entry, and a few others, are a joy to read. Though they tear at my soul, they also lift my spirits.

They do this because they have something special that lets them move effortlessly through me. Not ripping and tearing and bullying, but flowing, caressing, soothing.

Man, I'm really rambling now. Oops.

I think, without really looking back and checking, I think that all of the entries that I've written that I really like have been sad. This is, no doubt, partly because most of the shit I write about is sad, but it's also because I think the sad subjects are the ones that I let my heart write instead of trying to force my brain to write about things that it knows nothing about.

Well, fuck. My Internet connection is down. I think, if it ever comes back, then I'll just post this damn thing and get it over with. I've completely digressed from my original point anyway.

Some of the questions I've been asking myself a lot lately have been those that I never thought I'd have reason to ask again.

Will I be able to tell when enough is enough?

So far, I've bitten my tongue. I've restrained my writings. I've tempered and censored my very thoughts. So far, the need to simply stay afloat has been my driving force.

Will I be able to see that thin line between need and want?

But that will change. It's already started. It's changing right now or I wouldn't be writing this, this drivel. Once the needs are satisfied the wants will take over. The wants will consume me.

Will I see the edge between far enough and too far in time?

It's a funny thing. I know that I cannot fly. But I stand here once again at the edge of this abyss with my arms outstretched. I dream. I crave. I hope.

Will I make the same mistakes all over again?

Just turn away.

I've had enough. I got what I needed. I will never get what I wanted, but there are no brakes on this thing. I cannot stop it. I don't want to stop it.

Turn away. Walk away. Run away.

It's too much. It's always been too much. The smallest gesture sets me aflame.

Yet it's still not enough.

Just go.

Please.

We'll see how well this works. My laptop is broken, and I'm sitting in the New York New York casino, in the shopping area. At a little table with a pizza design painted on top. I'm sitting under a fake tree, surrounded by fake streets. Above the storefronts are the illusions of second and third story windows. It's all fake, but still very convincing. I half expect to get mugged.

What was I getting at?

Oh, yeah.

This place certainly has style, but there's no real substance behind it. Concrete and cold steel. Plaster and paint. Break through these facades and the illusion is revealed.

I had a conversation last night. At least it started out as a conversation. It ended up being more of a sermon, or an impassioned plea for understanding.

The things that you read, the things that I write, they're not fiction. I am not a storyteller. I'm not even much of a writer most of the time.

My writings describe my thoughts and my feelings and my life. Strip away the facades of flowing phrases and you really lose nothing. What you're left with may not be as refined, but it's no less real. Hell, it might even be more real.

The point I need to make is that it's often too easy for people to have a disconnect between the words that they read and the people and events behind those words. I see this reflected all the time in the comments and emails I get. People complimenting me in something I've written.

But the thing is, I'm am not an actor performing in a play. This is my life. These events are real. And beyond that, they're happening right now. This is not an historical account of my life that you're reading. It's a play-by-play description.

So, if I write about pain, then I'm hurting.

If I write about confusion, then I'm confused.

And if I write about being in love, then I'm in love.

Just not with you.

I keep starting this entry and then abandoning it.

I guess I just don't feel like writing anything.

Saturday was a good night. I got to see a lot of people. I didn't get spit on. I got to drink three pints of NABC Artemsia (250). I got to go to White Castle.

Oh yeah, SpikeBoy came in. Nobody had seen him in like nine months. I guilted him into buying a DaveFest shirt.

Stolen from ella.

Okay, I'm home.

My laptop broke Thursday night, but I still wrote some shit in my notebook.

Shit being the operative word in that last sentence.

I might post some of it anyway, as that's probably what people have come to expect from me lately.

The show must go on after all.

It's fucking Thursday night already. I haven't written anything since Tuesday morning. I'm a big slacker.

I'm having fun, I guess. How could I not have fun? It is Las Vegas after all. But what I haven't been doing is relaxing. That would be too much to ask for I suppose.

So, I spent the first three days regretting my decision to come here, and I've spent the last two days dreading my return to Indiana.

To the certain uncertainty.

I can already feel it, the fog creeping into my mind. Clouding my judgment and making everything that was so clear to me, for a brief period two days ago, murky and indistinct.

Decisions shouldn't be this tough. Options should be clear. Advantages and disadvantages should be obvious. Pitfalls should be brilliantly illuminated.

But noooooooooo!

I'm rambling here, and I know it.

You know what would be nice?

You know what would be really cool?

If I would feel like I was actually learning something from all this. Something beyond how to live with pain I mean. I've got that figured out. Time to move on.

Another thing that would be cool would be if all of this would somehow turn out to be worth it in the end. If someday I could look back and laugh, or even smile, or at least not want to cry.

It's amazing to me that I haven't given up. That I haven't just raised my middle finger to the world and stopped even trying to get along with other people. So few are worth any effort whatsoever.