(3:45 AM) Inkling Deficiencies Notwithstanding...

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[PART I]

The object of this exercise—this one you’re currently running your eyes across—the object is this: relevance. Rather, “relevance” is the preferred object. “Pertinence to the matter at hand,” as the American Heritage Dictionary will tell you. The “matter at hand” being: my life. 

And yet, it is entirely possible that, generally speaking, I’ve nary an inkling. Inkling deficiencies notwithstanding, I take some pleasure in wielding the words “nary” and “inkling” and “wielding,” and “notwithstanding,” even if misapplied. And, nae, there’s nary a thing you can do about it. You can’t unread it. Can you? At most, you can hope to forget it. This raises a question: Do people with regret-filled lives at long last find peace and happiness once dementia takes them? 

Cut me some slick, Mick, Rick, Dick, Nick, Vic, I’ve been up nearly twenty-four hours. 

So he called his “pal” yesterday. (Note the illeism.) This is the same “pal” he hadn’t heard from since [INSERT DAY MONTH YEAR HERE] when, together, they attended the midnight opening of a feature film presentation about the effects, uses, and consequences of fear. This flick, whilst far from perfect, left a profound impression. (In sooth, he has no recollection of how it impressed his “pal,” if at all.) Upon his return home, he raced up the winding stairs of his private turret, fired up his Babbage Difference Engine Pro, and furiously tapped out his profound impression of the aforementioned flick in an monograph, or perhaps it was more a treatise, unless it qualified as a disquisition, which, of course, he forthwith posted posthaste to his blog. (Indeed, ‘twas was this blog—albeit an earlier incarnation of it.)

And who took him seriously? 
Few took him seriously. 
Nae, nobody took him seriously. 
Why would they? 
Why would you? 
He’s shorter 
than the average man, 
he stutters, 
he’s got soft features 
(for a man), 
and, 
if nothing else, 
he looks a little too much like a 
Jim Carrey knockoff. 

Be that as it May, June, and July, said “pal” returned the call nearly three months later. During their cellular conversation, said “pal” extended an invitation to attend a midnight screening of a different flick—one that, again, explored the effects of, uses of, and triumphs over fear. Or, at least, success at fear-management—which, apparently, entails dressing up as a bat. Nevertheless, this flick? Much, much better than the one attended on [INSERT DAY MONTH YEAR HERE]. 

15 June 2005
 

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