more of the same that is more of the same

yep, still sitting here and apparently, this is helping me to produce something, even if if this is nothing, because i am using the excuse of doing something new and heretofore entirely unchallenged by me and this human mind. i suppose that if this is so, then i need a new challenge every now and then to stimulate the ole juices... why i took my new job of bus driving. but this is stirring me fingers into hitting the old keyboard as though i were as bukowski once said playing the piano until your fingers bleed a bit. even the action of typing of slightly masochistic... pushing your digits against the keys that you know are solid and stop at a certain point, not like the chest of maybe a certain someone that you want to thump your finger against, but all the keys do are thump and click and cluck back at you and create tiny little symbols on the screen in front of you that in your possibly misguided delirium, believe that someone else will read, because, hey in the billions of computer users and surfers, SOMEONE may actually stumble across this and give it a read and like it, so that you may feel justified in sitting here on a sunday morning and writing and drinking coffee instead of putting away the laundry as you should be doing.... like i said, masochistic, but writing is in its best sense, masochistic. putting it out there and hoping that the wall will hold and center will hold against the grinding sands of time. but will it? who knows? as my father may once have said... what does it all mean...? and then laugh about it. i think that my old man had it right, there...