I don't care.

hooooOOOOOOLy CrapThatFeelsAwesomeToSay.

It happened seemingly over night. I just stopped caring. About certain things. Certain situations. Certain relationships. I stopped fretting. Stopped over-thinking. Stopped trying so gosh-darn hard. It wasn't a conscious choice, which made it truly awesome. I got distracted by the rest of life, I guess. Time ran short for all the things previously filling my day and head, so natural selection ousted that caring part. Not about everything. Of course not. But about things I should've been smart enough to let go of a long time ago.

I would love to be more specific. But the trouble with a public blog is that the public can read it, and the public includes people I'd like to write about that probably would not take kindly to being written about, and although I've stopped caring about some things, I rather like having only a handful of people that hate me. More specifics inevitably means more people to hate me.

So I'll keep this short, shall I? (Too late.) Not caring, as callous and selfish as it sounds, is the best. Well, to be honest, it is callous and selfish to an extent, but that does not negate it's best-ness.


There's something about the music that Deb Talan and Steve Tannen make. Collectively they're known as The Weepies and, I don't know, maybe it's because I've listened to their songs too many times while getting over another rejection or another move or another life change, but I feel like their music—not necessarily them—gets me. Like somehow it's part of me.

I guess, in a way, it is. It's become part of my experience. Or experiences, really. The melodies and harmonies—especially the harmonies—have intertwined themselves with the ethereal matter of my memories. Right alongside the images of that one guy I liked so much and that one autumn when my hair was on point and that other thing that I can't quite remember but it's fused into my soul just the same—there, alongside all those things and more, is the music.

You know those times when you get a whiff of something and all of the sudden, like that scene from "Ratatouille", you're back in your childhood home and it's 1997 (or '87, or '67) and you're wearing that horrible purple corduroy dress you're mom forced on you? It's like that, with me and this music. But for some reason, instead of being transported to another time and place, an invisible pair of arms reaches through my ribs and wraps itself around my core. I'm not sure if I want to laugh or cry or fall asleep.

Ah, man. Good stuff.


©2015 E.Gosney — Oklahoma City

Late Night Ramblings:

I live for the experience. Ah, but I have you fooled. I don't live for being in the moment. No, not for that part of the experience. I live for the afterward. For the time I can reflect and look at the photos and write about the highlights and the frustrations and the never-want-to-forget-this moments. Maybe that's a bad thing. I can certainly see people saying that. Well, I guess they HAVE said it. That life is about the journey, not the destination. That we should live in the now, and live like there's no tomorrow and on and on. But hey, in my experience, there actually is a tomorrow. And it's full of journal entries and blog essays and conversations with those who weren't on that trip or in that museum or driving down Route 66 with you. So I guess those live-in-the-now people could be right, but just not right for me. I soak in the images and tastes and feelings and I use them for fuel in the days to come. To give me something to create from. To relive. And not just for reliving the good parts. On the contrary, I often depend on the crappy parts of existence for my most satisfying pieces. Reflecting on those heartaches and angry outbursts reminds me how to feel. How I have felt. How things compare to one another and how rich and incredible this life is. So yeah, I plan and I anticipate, and I seemingly plow through those mapped-out days so that I can get to the other side, where the recording takes place and the storytelling can begin. Because, for me, that's what I live for. The stories. The remembering. And the looking forward to when more fodder will come for more stories, more remembering, more writing, more life.