Spazmoid Reactions

Sometimes you got really snappy reflexes and people might say a thing about them. Often it is only a small matter. No matter at all, really, but the only acceptable response to these situations is to talk about your spazmoid reflex ability. Clumsiness is its own blessing, but combined with spazmoid reflexes (aka freak knock-overs, perpetually stubbed toes, etc) it is an unforgivable curse.

Why talk about reflex? No, I'm not really going to do that. Lame shit is what I aim to avoid in writing: it is the loftiest goal. Bullshit is far more welcome in my eyes than lame shit. But when there's a critique on, water in the blood and so forth, I really enjoy calling out the lame shit. I like writing sentences, dropping the phrase lame shit in them, and it's ultimately a reflex.

What's most ironic is that reflex is not reflective. At all. Wait. Those words... something's wrong about them. Misunderstood, the first sentence in this paragraph may come off as a shitty joke. You ought to know better by now. That was real shit, such as what I do not casually drop. Wow...

I might just have to give up the business. Set those writing dreams on their proverbial iceberg, watch them recede into the distance – and best of all: never even know when they sink. That lack of finality would make for such a good literary project about hundreds of small, constantly interrupted stories. There's your neo-novel, you grovelling panicmongers. Average length: 200 pages; average # of chapters: 238.

But that entire thought just drifts out into a global warming plastic gyre and disappears amidst the frothy waves. Goodbye, thought. Nice to know you! But you don't even need to offer those kinds of platitudinal, helpful bromides about taking leave. The thing's sunk: your future project almost at maturation disappeared without your knowledge.

Let me illustrate it: John Carpenter's The Thing on an hundred square mile ice-floe. Shit's breaking off. No trust and dwindling... wait this has probably been done. Dynamite, ideas, flying saucers. Morphing terrors from outer space. Your idea is the research station; it has its parts and bastards. The thing is your brain reclaiming the idea. Nobody wins the fight. So not only do they sink, but they sink as one final explosive climax, hissing as it submerges. The idea/non-idea admixture sinks to the bottom of the sea, lies forgotten until it is emerges from the dark waves as a dream or a nightmare.

But at least you don't have to deal with the idea! That's the awesome part. The thing about ideas is that so many of them die in worse ways than ostracism and neglect.