the continuing saga of self definition

he describes himself as someone who draws on every page, who draws from one closed door to another, who just eats the lemons of life with heavy salt, the last of the nephilim, a crafter of golems, a deviser of divinations, an emblazer of emblamata

he describes himself as conversant in au courant phases and phrases of rapprochement and detente in a rough and tumble helter skelter world besieged and bewailing the rip rack flotsam and jetsam of entropy

he describes himself as an astute observer of human nature, a person who finds infinite opportunities for empathy and pathos, engaged with the particular individual in his or her always already liminal status as "being unto death" in this happy go lucky free for all lottery called life [some restrictions may apply - definitions of "empathy" "pathos" and "liminal" may vary from state to state - void where prohibited - devoid where inhibited]

he describes himself as once supple, once agile, but never very swift, still not swift and even less so

he describes himself as waiting, as trying to be, as being to try

he describes himself as subject to changes in barometric pressure in a fixed exchange rate to alchemic coinage

he describes himself as a face in the crowd, a foot in the door, an ear to the ground, a hand to the plow, an ass in the seats, a mule in the streets, a horse on a boat, an opossum in a sushi bar, a squid on a jet - business class to paris in the spring, while penny's in a stream lost in space down a mountainside, moonshiner in vermont

he describes himself as sentimental: spending hours lost in reverie; swimming through imagined memories; climbing along escarpments of closure

he describes himself as a throwback thrown backwards throne backed throw rugged individual jumbo pack ratty tatty tip top tailored manicured ham handed settler

he describes himself as a numinous presence - a flash of light crossing foliage deep in the woods on a fall day revealing ordinary elements of the wild interspersed with remnants of a lost civilization, a coiled creature carved on stone, once fierce talons now grasped by lichen and moss

he describes himself as a system of multiplicities scattered along a line of flight in media res between the devil and the deep blue sea

he describes himself as having no plans, no ideas - only a sense of some palimpsest of an esthiogenesis of purpose

he describes himself as all chopped out, a clueless mensch with his unmentionables, Loch Ness with his caste of untouchables, railing against the harsh indignities of a world skewed to the blech end of the spectrum

he describes himself as someone who continues

he describes himself as a cannery in a cold mine, a sweet will of the whispered nothing - clandestinely coded clotted cartographies

he describes himself as a saturn 5 rocket hovering over the launch pad, shock waves pounding the air for miles around, seemingly motionless and in abeyance to gravity

he describes himself but doesn't explain himself - he describes others but cannot explain them either: he alternates between confirmation bias and disconfirmation bias - still he enjoys a pleasant evening and is safely home before the squall line and its autumnal gully washer