Sputtering Crazy in The Small Hours

By: Rosalind Black

I should make my mark in this book.

What good are a bunch of quotes if one takes nothing from them? They are other people speaking for me, speaking wiser things than this. And I’m using them. They are novelty in the sagesse they hold. Sadly. I keep them like toys. Fake memories. Emotions I can’t begin to describe but can pretend to.

Maybe that’s formative. Maybe I’m not as perspicacious as the consensus. But at least I’m good with words. It’s nice to be good at something. It makes one feel Particular. Incertitude. But I’ll try.

Maybe I’ll weave something that truly is Particular. Like The Great Gatsby –which I’ve never read, but heard from Man on the Moon. Liked what I heard. Good movie. Very Particular. And of a Particular man. Played by one too. People don’t generally like Particular. At first they find it repugnant. Too raw. But they always end up appreciating it. It’s what sticks. It stands out. Particularly.

But this is the general desire to be known. Famous. Heroic. Respected. Loved. Accepted. We all want to fit in. We all want to stand out. Human paradoxes. The summer is too hot; the winter is too cold.

No Fucking Shit. Gee I really am Colombo! What grand mystery have I uncovered? See what I mean about being Particular? Of course I want to be known! Why lie, my artists? But at least it’s for something in Particular.

It’s Particularly nice to ramble.