The Flood Behind Me

I'm not feeling particularly inspired tonight, but for lack of anything else that really interests me at the moment, I turn my fingers once more to the Keys of Truth (as they've just now been designated) to pound out what is sure to be another enlightening glimpse into the world of my wacky noodle. I've found that, if nothing else, this blog serves as a way for me to vent a little every so often, and I've also been told that it's a somewhat regular dose of the Billcast, which makes me feel like it's that much more worthwhile. For the unfortunate souls who never got to experience the Golden Age of 22-3, the Billcast, as it was dubbed by Andrew Clark, the One True Prayer Leader and fellow blogging aficionado (click this blue text here to read his blog), was what occurred whenever I would burst into 305 ranting emphatically about whatever happened to be on my mind at the time. I guess I did it so often that it warranted its own title.

I don't know if anyone else out there noticed this, but it occurred to me that the entity which antagonizes me the most and incites me to the point of fervent bloggery, my bread and butter, if you will, has gone completely unaddressed in the last two posts, and that entity is the people group known, as I tastefully decline to use a more offensive term, as "females." That's right folks, I haven't complained a lick about anything girls have done to bother me in over a month, which, if you know me, is quite the feat. I'm sure this is mostly due to the fact that my interactions with members of the opposite sex have been, for the last three months and counting, limited those that I have with members of my immediate family and those I have by means of interstate instant message conversations. This, of course, puts a cap on the number of things women can do to really irk me, and it's begun to show, but that leads to a more interesting conclusion that I've drawn about myself.

If I've not made it clear already, a large portion of my inspiration, at least for this blog, has come from witnessing females take courses of action that challenge my notions of what rational thought really is, or in laymen's terms, from watching them do things that bug the crap out of me. But that got me thinking, especially last night, when I went to write a new blog and initially had nothing to say, about what it is that gets me going on a more basic level. When I sat down to start writing, I was in a rather indifferent mood; not a pleasant one, necessarily, but I wasn't particularly upset about anything. As I geared myself up to write the blog, I realized that the method by which I was preparing myself mentally was to try and irritate myself to the point of having something to say... basically mental stimulation through situational frustration. It then occurred to me that if I wasn't really irritated about anything at the moment, it would be stupid of me to irritate myself and put myself in a bad mood just so I could write something down, so I decided to just watch a movie instead. But it dawned on me at that point: my inspiration comes mainly through irritation. If I'm not up in arms about something, I don't really have much to say. This, of course, is not always the case, but most of the time it's true.

And that brings me to the here and now. Again, tonight, I feel largely indifferent toward virtually everything; indeed, I feel almost consumed by apathy. Maybe it's just a temporary inclination brought about by a dull routine into which I've fallen over the past week or two, but maybe it's something more. When an exchange that I'm sure going in will get me fired up (or at least remotely concerned) just fizzles out and dies without leaving any real impression on me, it makes me pause to wonder: what's wrong with me? I'm not used to this, it's very strange, but I can't seem to shake it. Maybe it's a good thing that I'm not so concerned about certain things, but I basically feel that way about everything right now.

Yesterday Chris, the younger siblings, and I went to the Imagination Station, which is the coolest playground in all the land. It's tough to describe to somebody who's never been there, but it's got these big wooden structures that are connected via bouncy bridges and monkey bars and winding, maze-like platforms. If I were a little kid, I would have a blast playing there, and it almost makes me wish I had gone to Shaker Elementary, just so I could have experienced recess at the Imagination Station. When we got out of the car, however, we saw that one of the big wooden structures near the entrance had been replaced with a shiny new piece of playground equipment, made of metal and plastic and boasting a rather tall twisty slide. On its own, this piece was impressive, of course, a marvel of modern playground engineering and demonstrative of the latest in playground safety measures (shredded pieces of tire provided a squishy cushion at the base of the structure, in stark contrast to the wood chips that litter the rest of the playground). But it's just not the same. While it may not have been as visually stunning, the old wooden piece that formerly resided there had a great deal of character, and I was sad to see it gone in favor of what I can only describe as "change" with a twinge of "hope." I was extremely disappointed when I saw that one of my favorite things, the little talky boxes connected by underground pipes at opposing ends of the playground, had been removed to make way for this monstrosity. I was even more dismayed when I went over to the swing set. The swing set I had discovered three years ago, my favorite swing set in the whole world, was gone, replaced by a new one of the same breed as the structure that took the place of our old wooden friend. All sentimentality aside, even in its practical application, this new swing set is inferior, as the supports are not as high as the old set's, and the swing's radius from the top of the support is decreased, allowing you to only dream wistfully of how high you had once been able to soar on those old swings. One thing that was left unchanged, however, was the Low Rider Swings way off in the distance, and thank goodness for that. At least there I could sit and ponder my existence without feeling like I was a visitor on some strange alien playground.

My point is this: the past is gone and the future is bleak, so you can't look to either for comfort. Maybe the notion that I'm just stuck exactly where I am is what's causing me to be so apathetic. I feel like deviation from what I'm already familiar with will bring nothing but trouble, but at the same time, I'm forced to stray from the beaten path that I love so much. I'm in a situation that I'm not exactly fond of, but at least it's safe, so I can't really complain either. Maybe a few days in Williamsport will put things in a better perspective, or at least distract me a little.