Blogs are the worst. I despise all blogs. They epitomize the hazards of free speech; anyone can write anything, true or not, smart or dull, nonsensical or totally logical. Blogs are full of poorly constructed opinions and bad taste. They're click bait, SEO slaves, and internet trolling marketing predators. I wish all modern writers of the internet would just go to hell. Except for me because every word I put on the page is phenomenal. I'm too good for fact checking and peer review. Everything I have to say is absolute and infallible. Besides, I'm not really a writer. I'm a "street-art photographer," or so is the euphemistic title that I now put down under "occupation" on any formal application. Salary: $0. Responsibilities: None.
Lately my productivity has been low; I'm looking outside myself for sources to blame, and I'm going with power outages. My building has been having some power outages recently, so I can't charge my phone and have to go to bed early just to pass the time. Maybe it's because of recent solar flares. Maybe we'll have a solar flare big enough to wipe out our power grid, and then we'll have no blogs. Our abyss of data—Social Media rubbish and uneducated political diatribes—can just be metaphorically razed to the ground. We'll have to fight each other for food when the looting begins. I'm warning you, I will hit men, women and children to get to the oatmeal bulk bins at Whole Foods. I have an axe and a hatchet in the trunk of my car, and I'm not afraid to use them.
I have all the time in the world right now to go find good graffiti shots, but I always find my day filled with other things. Someone decided to play a mean joke and replace my cloth blankets with lead ones so I can't get up in the morning, and I just have to lay under the blankets for hours. Then when I do get up I just want to put an elephant dart in my neck. After a cup of coffee I feel okay. I put the tranquilizer dart back in my dresser drawer with my other toys, and I start my day with TWA—Time-Wasting Activities and looking out the window to see what season we're going with today.
Things aren't going the way they're supposed to go, generally. It's almost time to take out my bicycle, but we're expecting another snowstorm here in the middle of April. Also, Pajamas has been using my tires as a scratching post, so I don't know how well the rubber is going to hold up. I'll probably get out there when the snow melts in September, and my tires will pop in a bad neighborhood. By that time it will start snowing again right then. I'll just have to hump my bicycle parts back home on my back, trudging through the snow in my flip flops. This is why I'm a well-known lover of the outdoors.
Catfish in the Mud
I went to Namibia and took a tour of Sossusvlei, where it hasn't rained in 6 years. The river is completely dried up. My guide told me that even in the six-year drought, catfish are hibernating deep down in the mud and will surface again when the rains come back and restore life to the desert. I didn't believe him at first, like I didn't believe in the mysterious fairy circles on the dunes. But now the idea of catfish in the mud has become a metaphor for the things trapped on the inside and down below that wait for the rains to give them some vigor and life. Catfish in the Mud is a pretty standard millennial blog in which I say mostly nothing in about 300 words.