buy the ticket, take the ride
One minute till six AM and I have evaded sleep for the past 12 hours due to a terminal lack of motivation to rest. Usually laziness is its own reward but now I can't seem to bring myself to even be lethargic. My mind is a blurred cacophony of introspective horror and giddy dementia. A mental mayonnaise jar full of used engine oil, dirt, and water held together in a globulous emulsion of endomorphic chaos is the only metaphor I can construct to illustrate my psycho-mental, spiritual-ideological, emotional-intellectual muck. I am unkempt, unwashed, disheveled, crude smelling, savage looking, and in all other ways perceptible by the human imagination uncivilized. Yet, I feel oddly contented and appreciative of this state of being, state of mind, and stage of development. It must be a stage of development, for without development there is stagnation and that which does not evolve becomes extinct and there is far too much kinetic karma at work for any signs of extinction. What would Thompson do? What hasn't he done? Only a man so misunderstood as he could possibly be called kindred and then only in the lack of understanding about him are we alike. My grammar check chokes on the previous sentence. Can the imagination be bound, whipped, and made to conform to the limited grammatical mechanics of a computer program? Faulkner would write for days without punctuation. I suspect it is conspiracy by the technocratic elite to dumb down the masses by instilling the idea that stream of consciousness though and fluidic ideas are inherently wrong.
I think my problem is that I may have lost the weird. There was once a sense of adventure a true spirit of Gonzo that echoed within me and those like minded souls that glimpsed the madness that I have so closely skirted, but it has given way to pragmatism, ambition, calculated planning and worship of the banal. It never got weird enough for me. Not when those four black guys fucked the good sense and decency out of the carefree Asian nymph on my dorm room bed, not when I crawled bloody, muddy, soaking, half naked and almost barefoot, dripping with sticky brown beverage through the wee hours of the morning, not when we charged in with dogged determination to assault Aleshia's knee, steal Spot's cat, harass their houseguests with small bottles of liquor and gumball machine toys and certainly not when crazed on liquor and exhaustion I dawned an orange road cone as my crown and strode into traffic as a king into court, was it ever weird enough for me. Frank knew. He saw it in me. He could see the t-shirt that said I went to the brink of sanity and back and all I got was this lousy t-shirt. He had one to. No, he had more than one but he took the express train there. I walked slowly and deliberately and peered in to the wild amorphous mass that churned below and said hello to the sirens that were calling me to leap in. I did not leap. Now, I have walked so far back that I can no longer hear the siren's call or hear the waves of insanity as they crash upon the rocky shores of rationality.
I do so miss the seaside.
The oysters were always fresh there and each always contained a pearl.
A long walk on the beach would do me good.
Perhaps this time, I may go for a swim.
I think my problem is that I may have lost the weird. There was once a sense of adventure a true spirit of Gonzo that echoed within me and those like minded souls that glimpsed the madness that I have so closely skirted, but it has given way to pragmatism, ambition, calculated planning and worship of the banal. It never got weird enough for me. Not when those four black guys fucked the good sense and decency out of the carefree Asian nymph on my dorm room bed, not when I crawled bloody, muddy, soaking, half naked and almost barefoot, dripping with sticky brown beverage through the wee hours of the morning, not when we charged in with dogged determination to assault Aleshia's knee, steal Spot's cat, harass their houseguests with small bottles of liquor and gumball machine toys and certainly not when crazed on liquor and exhaustion I dawned an orange road cone as my crown and strode into traffic as a king into court, was it ever weird enough for me. Frank knew. He saw it in me. He could see the t-shirt that said I went to the brink of sanity and back and all I got was this lousy t-shirt. He had one to. No, he had more than one but he took the express train there. I walked slowly and deliberately and peered in to the wild amorphous mass that churned below and said hello to the sirens that were calling me to leap in. I did not leap. Now, I have walked so far back that I can no longer hear the siren's call or hear the waves of insanity as they crash upon the rocky shores of rationality.
I do so miss the seaside.
The oysters were always fresh there and each always contained a pearl.
A long walk on the beach would do me good.
Perhaps this time, I may go for a swim.