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| Newbies hate it when we park here. It simply takes confidence in your abilities. Put on your adult uniforms, buckle up, and make the turn. You got this, brothers and sisters. |
Deke's Note: Twice before, I have tried to kick this blogging habit. Even tried to "kill" Deke. I failed each time. Why? Because Deke became stronger than Patrick. Because an artist misses the audience. Losing you is a great fear. Once upon a time, this blog reached thousands of readers a day. Then, blogs were "trending" as today's lingo describes. Now, videos take readers away from writers. Swipers are lazy. Anything longer than a few sentences induces the swipe reflex. My brain doesn't allow for me to video myself stumbling and bumbling through vocal reflections. This brain has a disconnect between the thought and vocal processes. It's that damn in-utero brain injury. It takes me several seconds to communicate aloud what I'm thinking. My speech center was damaged. It took a lot of speech therapy those early years for me to speak correctly, to accurately vocalize my thoughts. It merely allowed me to respond in basics, not as quickly as my thoughts appeared. Makes me awkward in social settings to this day. If I write first, I'm much more fluid and descriptive. This post is my prayer for creativity in a day of techno-intellectual laziness.
I hope, like all writers, that people learn how to read again. There is so much freedom and joy to discover in the written words. Since the Chinese printed the first words in 868 CE (Common Era), people were drawn to the knowledge to be gleaned from reading actual literature. Once the "smart phone" was invented, we've devolved dramatically. Humans are numbing and dumbing out. "Literally," as the masses are wont to say these days, without the actual realization of that word's proper definition. They'll sit in a bus shelter, dressed all in dark, eyes glued to their incessant scrolling, oblivious to the apps which tell us exactly when that bus they need to catch will arrive. Apps which have an option to set an alarm to alert them when it is bearing upon them.
Hey, I have 20/20 corrected vision, but at night, especially when it's raining, I need help to see you. If you would actually use the technology available to you, maybe you wouldn't be left at that stop waving at a bus that whizzed past because of your inattention to reality. Perhaps transit management, in its quest to pamper intending passengers, will allow you to send a message to the bus that you're lurking invisibly at the next stop. As if that would work, because you're too immersed in the webosphere to take time to send that message.
Dumbasses, you need to be more alert. Fucking stand up and shine a light at us for crying out loud! But no, you're too entitled to take responsibility.
These words likely won't reach the multitudes of those I write to. A handful of bus operators, a few transit passengers who already know how to ride transit, or the occasional reader who happens upon an aging bus blog.
So has the muse been of any use? It's hard to accept my writing has been in vain. I haven't made money here, or even hoped to when I began. This is, always has been, a simple writing exercise by a writer who drives a bus for a living. I write about the job. How I've felt throughout my nearly 350,000 miles behind the wheel. Interactions with passengers. Bitching about management's disconnect with those who make it all roll.
The biggest problem with writing this blog has been devolving into reruns. Remember that term? If not, fucking Google it, youngster. Rehashing common themes gets so boring. Yet like the needle a junkie yearns to plunge into that eager vein, I kept searching for readers. That tends to cheapen the fix. Like the druggie, that earliest high is so elusive. The response of the rush is gone. Still, the needle keeps finding the vein. Ouch. Time to stop? Yeah. Can I? No promises. Addicts are usually incapable of providing honest promises.
I am, still, a bus operator. One who is constantly writing behind the wheel, then forgets the muse once the exhaustion of another shift and sleep becomes my only escape. No commendations this past year tends to leave me wondering why I bend over backwards to extend kindness over the miles. Nobody seems to give a fuck. Why do I still care? Why? Because I do. Period. I can't abandon my soul's affinity for humanity because nobody else cares. Somehow, I know people appreciate it even though they don't often express it.
A few of you know I have written much more than this blog displays. Short stories. Novels begun begging completion. This bloggery has kept me from publishing infinitely more of me than exists here. I lack the confidence to branch out. It's very expensive to publish one's craft today. So many cons out there wanting my money with promises to make me buck$. Oh they'll likely make more off me than I will off their clickbait. So I hesitate. Trying to outsmart the worldwide web's deceitful promises of wealth guaranteed only to those already zillionaires.
Writers are becoming obsolete with the advent of "artificial" creativity. My son didn't understand my anger when he allowed it to write his resume for him. Pure fucking laziness, I insisted. I won't give this new entity the honor of writing that which describes how it takes from anything posted online and automatically analyzes/summarizes, then rehashes what people cannot describe themselves. It should be called Artificial Laziness.
Whoever reads this, please ignore, and fight, the automation of art. Humans may have invented technology, but we must not allow ourselves to be replaced by that which has hypnotized us to the point of active ignorance (AI). Art is more than human; it's inherent, internal and exquisitely personal. If we allow computers to rule, humanity becomes irrelevant.
We are only victims unto ourselves. Once we stop yearning for knowledge, heeding the lessons of those who came long before us, we become slaves to those who profess to know all yet have no basic understanding whatsoever.
Blissful be your reading, happy be your literary journeys. Please don't limit yourself to scrolling; find a good book, preferably a classic. Carry on, wayward souls.
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