Why the rooks nest? Because - it's my little nest on the web - and like the crow, the raven, the rook, I just can't seem to keep my claws off of the shiny tinsel of life:
a telling line in a current book,
a new toy I'm salivating over,
a foolish inconsistency that I'm hobgoblin-ing,
it seems the 'shiny things' have a way of trapping my mind and (consequently) eating my life. I'm like that insane bird that squats in the middle of the road, worrying at that little gobbet of squirrel flesh until the tractor-trailer of life flattens him into meaty little crow-pancakes.
Sometimes it's healthier to just let go . . .
Some of these idee fixe I honestly don't mind so much. They're reliably entertaining, and I can come back to them over and over again. They're FUN. . . like good friends.
Others. . . not so much. Those annoying little memories that lurk like decaying algae at the bottom of a pond. Every once in a while they build up just enough gaseous mass to tear away from the weighty stone of submerged memory and
-blub, plooble, BLOOP-
your monday morning haze is suddenly shattered by the pointy end of a fourteen year old girl with spiky purple hair pointing, laughing, "you dance like a spastic aerobics instructor."
Personally, of course, I like to share the discomfort with others by exploding with a hyena-like bark, and then lapsing into vaguely uncomfortable mumblings, 'bitch wasn't that hot, anyway. And pulling your socks up to your knees keeps your calves warm. Sensible. Some people prob'ly find it sexy. . . " and mumble. and mumble. and mumble.
Apparently there's a whole school of thought that says one can purge fixations both dark and trivial through a 'talking cure.'
Thus, the nest. Feel free to poke through the twigs and strings and gum wrappers. And remember - I warned you - you might find some tinsel. . . but there's also a chance you'll find some rotting squirrel-flesh.