(no subject)
So I was gliding back home along two strips of slick steel for an entirely too long five hours. I don't know what that place does to me, but Ottawa left me feeling so damn drained. The hollow sort of drained where its tough to sleep and equally tough to converse with anybody or think or marshal the energy needed to make dinner or whathave you when you're finally home. Maybe it was that my previous night's sleep had been little more than a glorified weed nap and every night I'd been sleeping on floors or loveseats or other surfaces not generally suitable for sleep.
Let me tell you, after sleeping all I've slept on Greyhound buses, couches and floors, my spine only delivers the messages to my brain with scorn, expecting a decent tip for the shit it's had to put up with all these years. Back in college, there would always be the "Test Your Back Here" people with their table set up in the B-building cafeteria, right beside the Rastafari hat vendor. I'm often wary of medical diagnostics. Deep down, I'd rather remain blissfully ignorant than realize just how fucked everything has become and how it's entirely my fault. Also, these people are in it for money and would probably give me a bogus read-out so I'd go and blow bankroll on sketchy backcracking.
Anyways, there are many types of drained and this was one of the less satisfying/interesting types there was. The party that had been going in my mind long before hadn't been realised in the real world. I tried dispatching people to and fro and still failed to make critical mass. Not that it wasn't fun drinking a 26 of Havana Club with friends, smoking mids and playing Cranium until small hours. Because that was fun.
I just wish I could have written that day to be a tv special of my life, circa 2004. A reunion episode. That the stars and planets and buses and people and raindrops would snap into position and followed the directors telepathic cues for the folks watching back home.
But now I'm back in the a-side of my reality cassette tape on repeat, rewind and repeat. Swimming in familiar psychic currents at work, hustling/hawking on craigslist, dreaming up the wheeled, heavy duty DIY room divider I want to build and talking about what to grab off of BitTorrent with some random lady at the laundro. Figuring out what's going to be pop rocks for my cola.
Let me tell you, after sleeping all I've slept on Greyhound buses, couches and floors, my spine only delivers the messages to my brain with scorn, expecting a decent tip for the shit it's had to put up with all these years. Back in college, there would always be the "Test Your Back Here" people with their table set up in the B-building cafeteria, right beside the Rastafari hat vendor. I'm often wary of medical diagnostics. Deep down, I'd rather remain blissfully ignorant than realize just how fucked everything has become and how it's entirely my fault. Also, these people are in it for money and would probably give me a bogus read-out so I'd go and blow bankroll on sketchy backcracking.
Anyways, there are many types of drained and this was one of the less satisfying/interesting types there was. The party that had been going in my mind long before hadn't been realised in the real world. I tried dispatching people to and fro and still failed to make critical mass. Not that it wasn't fun drinking a 26 of Havana Club with friends, smoking mids and playing Cranium until small hours. Because that was fun.
I just wish I could have written that day to be a tv special of my life, circa 2004. A reunion episode. That the stars and planets and buses and people and raindrops would snap into position and followed the directors telepathic cues for the folks watching back home.
But now I'm back in the a-side of my reality cassette tape on repeat, rewind and repeat. Swimming in familiar psychic currents at work, hustling/hawking on craigslist, dreaming up the wheeled, heavy duty DIY room divider I want to build and talking about what to grab off of BitTorrent with some random lady at the laundro. Figuring out what's going to be pop rocks for my cola.