He gets up in the morning and he goes to work at night.
Where in the world do you want to go? America, that's where. I've been there a few times, but most of my days are spent sitting on another planet full of feet draggers, beer addicts, mindless psychology majors and country music fans. The yellow-painted road beckons me to the far-away land of California, the default get away for anyone that looks in the mirror and doesn't see surroundings fit for their mind.
But do I really have a destiny that leads me to the hills of the West Coast or is it just because I see my heroes in Big Sur that I want to be there? Dr. Thompson, Mr. Kerouac, The Dead, even Jojo. The Bay Area seems to be the home of the me I want to be. I come from fields of Georgia snow but I yearn to be baptized in the dirty Pacific.
I sometimes question what I'm doing, why I am where I am. My concepts of what life are much more grandiose than this, more full of epiphanies and praise and late nights listening to jazz with a group of philosophers and writers as we drink wine and pass around a joint all the while discussing the meaning behind Narrow Stairs and how M.C. Escher's Drawing Hands represents the paradox of becoming who we are. Maybe California isn't the only place that can happen. Hell, I know it isn't. But can it happen in Statesboro? It's possible... but I haven't found it.
So I took advice from a turtle and retreated back into my shell, using the introvert's method of partying: writing and drugs. No, not all drugs. Hell, not even most drugs. But some drugs. Some of them open your mind just enough to get a feel for the twists and turns, the nuances that make up your DNA. Getting a glimpse of the helix, I'm compelled write down what I see, but I don't always. Some of the time I sit on the couch with a pair of headphones (or as the kids say, "cans") and I merely contemplate what I saw and what it means.
But even then, I feel like I'm a poser. Someone who merely wants to be something but lacks the gall to become that thing. In this case, I feel like I'm a pseudo-writer. I think about writing when I wake up and while I sleep. I ponder what I want to say and how what I say will reflect myself and the world. I painted this picture of who I want to be but when I look at myself as I sit now and don't see that person, my gut reaction is to flush myself down the toilet as a failure.
But no one is who they want to be. Not really. There is always room for improvement. In my case, it is to take control. If I want to wake up at the crack of dawn, then I must resist the snooze button. If I want to read more than I watch TV, then I must put down the remote and pick the book up. If I want to clear my mind and start fresh, then the substances must subside. If I want to be a writer, there is only one thing I can do: Write.
I don't know where I'm going with this so I will stop.
The ranting ends -------->here.
But do I really have a destiny that leads me to the hills of the West Coast or is it just because I see my heroes in Big Sur that I want to be there? Dr. Thompson, Mr. Kerouac, The Dead, even Jojo. The Bay Area seems to be the home of the me I want to be. I come from fields of Georgia snow but I yearn to be baptized in the dirty Pacific.
I sometimes question what I'm doing, why I am where I am. My concepts of what life are much more grandiose than this, more full of epiphanies and praise and late nights listening to jazz with a group of philosophers and writers as we drink wine and pass around a joint all the while discussing the meaning behind Narrow Stairs and how M.C. Escher's Drawing Hands represents the paradox of becoming who we are. Maybe California isn't the only place that can happen. Hell, I know it isn't. But can it happen in Statesboro? It's possible... but I haven't found it.
So I took advice from a turtle and retreated back into my shell, using the introvert's method of partying: writing and drugs. No, not all drugs. Hell, not even most drugs. But some drugs. Some of them open your mind just enough to get a feel for the twists and turns, the nuances that make up your DNA. Getting a glimpse of the helix, I'm compelled write down what I see, but I don't always. Some of the time I sit on the couch with a pair of headphones (or as the kids say, "cans") and I merely contemplate what I saw and what it means.
But even then, I feel like I'm a poser. Someone who merely wants to be something but lacks the gall to become that thing. In this case, I feel like I'm a pseudo-writer. I think about writing when I wake up and while I sleep. I ponder what I want to say and how what I say will reflect myself and the world. I painted this picture of who I want to be but when I look at myself as I sit now and don't see that person, my gut reaction is to flush myself down the toilet as a failure.
But no one is who they want to be. Not really. There is always room for improvement. In my case, it is to take control. If I want to wake up at the crack of dawn, then I must resist the snooze button. If I want to read more than I watch TV, then I must put down the remote and pick the book up. If I want to clear my mind and start fresh, then the substances must subside. If I want to be a writer, there is only one thing I can do: Write.
I don't know where I'm going with this so I will stop.
The ranting ends -------->here.