Is This Thing On?

I don't know if I can be funny when I try to be funny. Funny happens on its own. It's more funny when it comes out to visit instead of being dragged by the hair or roped up and hauled into the open.

Funny is simple. One of my favorite movies, comedically speaking, of all-time is Monty Python and the Holy Grail. One of my favorite scenes (and there are several) is when the searching Sir Arthur and his gaggle of coconut clapping hop-alongs happen upon a sorcerer. The sorcerer takes command of their attention by displaying his prowess with pyrotechnics. After a dazzling display of explosions and fireworks, striking fear into even the boldest of heart, King Arthur and his men are duly impressed, and are moved to applaud the sorcerer's valor, grit, and exploit.

Those familiar with the story of King Arthur know about Merlin. Surely, this must be our introduction to him in this movie? It is then that King Arthur asks the sorcerer what they should call him-- "What is your name?" After a couple more blasts go off from the pointing of his finger, and echo about the canyon, the sorcerer relents.

"Some call me..." and here, the pause is exquisite.

"Tim?"

Of course. Tim the wizard.

That's funny.

But my own funny. Where does it sit? Where does it originate? And how can I make it want to visit?

A lot of comedy is timing. It's different in writing, in song, in stand-up. So I gotta get the timing right. It's about time. *cue rimshot*

Speaking of time-- the timer's going off. Time to do some other chores. Will have to continue this again later.

Another time.

Until then.

Funny You Should Mention

The last thing I want to do is roll out the barrels and knock knock jokes. I just wanna have fun. Because I'm a girl? No! Guys wanna have fun, too. No, really. And not in a dirty way.

There's something like paint in the totality of the ceiling. I think there's even a verb in every sentence. And yet, it's funny; Funny ain't there. This isn't funny.

There's a light... There's a way to do this. I haven't figured it out yet. I am just trying to keep the typos down and get a point across. But doing it this way starts to make my wrists hurt.

So. Relax. You can't force the funny. Let the funny come to you. Or let the funny come. It will. It always does. Banana. (In case of emergency, drop in a fruity reference).

Where do we go from here? Guava. It's fun to say: Guava. You're starting to smile! Kumquat.

It's working! Give my creation LIFE!!!

Now there's the funny. Young Frankenstein. Mel Brooks. Gene Wilder. There are some quality laughs in those fruity references. Peter Boyle. Madeleine Kahn. Marty Feldman. Terri Garr. Gene Hackman, for crying out loud. Classic comedy, to be enjoyed again and again.

Funny that I'm not sure I spelled their names correctly. Funny that I should care. Funny that I make an effort to care about such minute details again and again.

Comedy is hard. Funny happens.

I want to write. I write for the funny. I enjoy the funny. I love the funny.

Funny is serious business.

The Mean in Meaning

I'm tired. Uninspired. When I open my mouth, poetry doesn't ease its way out. That's how I perceive it.

I don't get poetry. What makes it poetic? It's not the rhyme or the meter or the sublime or the reader. Is it? I don't know. I'm just trying to make it interesting. I figure if I'm interested, perhaps there's somebody else out there who will feel the same way.

Interested?

This is a workout. I'm trying to tone my muscles, tighten the abs up. I want to get to the meat of the matter. Where the meaning matters. Somewhere between the best moment in your life and the moment before your death, when you finally gain the perspective to appreciate this time that we have... to fully negotiate and digest the thrills and fears that are possible, juxtaposed by the same highs and lows that we actually experience.

And then to have a bounty of elations and melancholies, as part of your experience, inordinate visitation notwithstanding. Hard to get the pecs in order when the brain muscle is out of control.

So what the hey am I trying to say? Are we discussing poetry? Mortality? Bi-polar morality? Why does this feel more like a song than a blog post? The sun is shining right into my eyes as I write this. Truth. Warming enlightenment.

I want to keep moving, but I have to keep closing my eyes. The thoughts are so random and secular. Pasted like paper mache over the forms of the words... no, pasted over the forms of the meaning, becoming something a little different when it all dries. A different shade every time you read through it.

There's no business like shoe sales. Now I'm soul searching. What happened to the poetry? What is poetry?

A friend of mine did me a favor and looked over some of my writing for me. He made several comments and suggestions. At one point he had circled a passage and written in the margin: "This is Poetry." Several years have passed and I still don't know how to interpret that.

I guess I should ask him, huh? (Duh.)

When I push through the walls that creep up while I'm trying to write, it is exhilarating. Cathartic. Roman Catholic. With whip cream.

I don't know why it comes out like this, but it does. I'm trying to ride the wave, capture the pure thought, not edit as I write, find the flower and the gem and the golden vein. Celibacy.

Little droplets of spittle, I can't control them. I wipe my mouth but they still jump out at their will. There's a workout going on here! Rattle the cages, make some beer bread, moisten those envelopes! There's a spirit to be had here! Lounging is disqualified. Lame Federal grant program. We want eggs. Ranchero.

I want meaning. Stress it. But I want it to ease out of me, not be dragged scratching and squealing.

Did ya ever wish you had more friends? That you had more time to do for you and not the job, the government, the ever expanding responsibility burden? I know you have. Well, I have.

I'm seriously considering walking away from a very good-paying job with great benefits because I'm insane and I want to prove it. I want to have more time to work in the garage. My garage. I want to write. I want to eat more healthily than I presently do. I want to work in the yards and plant a garden and grow food for my wife and I. I want to get rid of the multitude of distractions and live a simpler life.

But I fear the ramifications of a poor decision. I fear not being able to find a way to make it. We can't financially handle living here, as we are, on only my wife's salary, for more than a few months.

So why the anguish? Why the turmoil? Why leave the security blanket, when it's so comfy and warm and calming? Because I'm being called to make a change. And it's bigger than getting a new haircut or getting a piercing of some sort.

I want to create things out of nothing to add to the abundance and help heal our world. My strengths and skills are in the areas of art and humor. I want to harness my talents and ride on into greater challenges. I've wanted to write for decades. I've even done it now and again. But I want to find a way to be able to do it more, and not have to depend on another job to finance my lifestyle. I feel as though I'm throwing away a large chunk of my life to make the money and have the security that I do.

Is this what coming to terms with "selling out" is like?

Years ago, I chose the path of gainful employment, and it has brought me much joy and prosperity. But somewhere that became not enough.

It's not even because I "hate" my job. It's more that I have a calling to do things elsewhere.

D'ya know what I mean? Albatross.