Fog of War

It is the last day of the 2015 Stampede. Mother Nature has decided it best to get shifty with the weather. First rain, then thunder... then sun and rain again. She needs to make up her mind. I need her to make up her mind.

The dullness of my apartment offers no escape from the boredom that currently infects me. This rain is making me crazy. I am already out of sorts. Being disjointed isn't helping me find my ground. I feel like I've swallowed a bottle of earthquake pills. I am the coyote. At least the cliff is off in the distance. I think.

I find I'm agitated by everything. I have the jitters and yet I feel blunted. There is a disruption. I hit the eject button, Perhaps stepping out into the world will assuage me. My hope is the prattle and lyrical jetsam of my city will drag me out of my slump. At this point, at the very least it's a distraction.

My brain is cycling though a series of frustrations. I feel rudderless as of late. My need to create has been subverted by an inability to articulate the things that are bubbling beneath my skin. I'm sure it's anger. But it bluntly refuses to rise from it's current prepubescent state. I want it to manifest itself. At least that way I can shape it into something useful.

I head to a cafe. It's awash with urbanites and their shiny mac books. I feel like I'm in an Apple store. It would be a perfect setting for a commercial; a dozen glowing apples, in an orchard of hipsters. All that's missing is the “Think Different” catch phrase, which now seems more like a hopelessly ironic taunt.

Here everyone is a social media maven. Here the myth of digital democracy percolates, and targets the congregation of the converted, but succeeds only in striking the heart of the lowest common denominator. This is not a friendly fire incident. The stragglers are prisoners of war. Locked in a click-bait jail, while Buzz feed wards the inmates.

For today at least, the lumbersexuals have chosen a different stump. Its odd to me that the mountainous mulch of facial hair can harbor that much arrogance and pretension. If I hear one more “Into The Wild” story or one more treatise on “Farm to table” I may gouge my eyes out.

I have switched locations. A new cafe. More comfortable to me. A familiar territory, with better coffee and killer butter tarts. My jitters fade. Ironically the coffee is working. It's taking the edge off at least. My thoughts start to fumble through the fog; sifting for an explanation of my mood.

I suspect I will feel better tomorrow, but for now, I will just be crabby and lost.