Strange times indeed, friends and neighbors. Of course, rest assured proper time and energy has been applied to keep the mind limber and the will strong. Having reached the point that demarcates beginnings from the tenuous fight for survival, my own cognitive skills have obviously been put to good use. I feel ready to rip the head off the next motherfucker that even questions my chosen ways. Is that too much? Well, there is no simple way to answer a question as vague as that, what with the opportunity for the real fun just around the corner. Still, carefully typesetting the trigger that begins the process would probobly tip off the people that don’t understand what it means not to care too much. The devil might have most of us by the balls, but blaming anyone not resonsible for undoing your pants would be three steps too far. Bring the knives, the honey jar, and the cigarettes/lighter/ashtray. Look me in the eye. Smoke a cigarette with me. Are you still calm when I say I’m learning slowly, but learning nevertheless from the way you push hair around, or the way you smile? At least respect me enough to say that you are doing the same thing.
Now, something was said to me earlier in the week that brings back pictures of a little beach house. Fuck the batshit crazies that really think reaching for a few more inches is more important than laying the groundwork for the realization of expectations. There’s nothing other than that for those of us looking for approximations of wisdom. While commiting various spasmadic claims to block off my little empire from attack, the balance is paid is specifics. Disorganization in action. And cue the music, the outstretched mind, the flaming end to romanticism. Life’s a bitch, but save yourself. The only thing I can promise is that nobody else will. “One may smile and smile” is another way to put it. We are Viennese, and I blame Billy Joel.
All of this pleases me. My own great awakening, an experience that may not last but will be ridden until it ends. Complexity to be enjoyed, played with, puzzled over. Turning over the hassles, the vagaries of some stuid bastard waiting for answers, as if an answer would provide anything to salve the pain and regret of settling for less than full value. Those kids at Duke weren’t cheating. They are the victims of a system that identifies weakness and overcorrects for an over-aggressive pursuit of an edge. They should have shot each other in the ass with steroids. It works for some people. Still laughing at the almost incoherent shock revealed by stammering voices. You mean the instructions aren’t the rules? There’s a word for those types. If there isn’t, there should be.
So if there is one question to ask, the material use is simlification. Objectively, context and distance will determine if we are in red shift or blue shift. Observer, context, object. Take that dualism! But more to the point, the question I’ve come up with is as follows: Characterizations and judgements aside, is passive action a more usefull philosophical basis than material reactionism or similiar systems of structured thought? Y’all know where I stand, but with all due respect, could a couple of the dilletantes make their opinion known? What is it that keeps you coming back?
This week will be more business, but the focus cannot waver from the pursuit of irony informed by those souls kind enough to play the parts this world really needs. Clowns. The rest of us are superfluous to them. We should thank them for letting us continue in our capacity as attentive audience and introspective individuals. Seriously, the world doesn’t need anymore killers. It probobly doesn’t need the ones who support them either, but that is a subject for another time. I don’t want to end on a down note, so consider this. Microwave bacon is as important to me as paper towels and duct tape. That makes sense, but also it doesn’t. Anyway I have to go because Phil Collins is on the radio and if I don’t change it soon, I may just go crazy and try to jump into the oven.
After finding some new music, I can go back to daydreaming, which is what this day was really made for. Another satisfied customer. Seems like there’s not much to do, so its time to do it.
“I’m probobly guilty of any number of foolish and ill-conceived crimes. But right htis second, I’m laughing too much to care, and besides who’s trailing me?”
That was the message I received this morning, locked between hinges and stoicism, the ranting that only comes from my arch-enemy and sometimes good friend Sir Trowell. Searching for Huey Lewis my ass. The man was up to no good, as usual, and on a count of his complexity and penchant for cryptic notes, there was no fucking way to anticipate what would come next. For the most part, this was a welcome development. Life is busy, or, at the very least seems busy when half the mind is given over to stimulation and agitation. This is not to say the situation is unenjoyable (quite the opposite.) Irony addiction is a powerful disease. Plus, what kind of human being would waste time leaping to conclusions unsupported by experience and the pretension of logic.
There is no reason to brag about a lucky streak when there are still bets to be made. The funniest thing about it is the total lack of involvement in anything remotely resembling a plan. Certainly, there is post ipso facto sort of rationale to a lot of these mysterious solutions, but why sit around moping because the memory on holds onto certain imrints. Now, some would place the blame squarely on me, which would be a righteous and just action save the obvious flaw in that theory. While struggling to replace the foolish dualism with a more appropriate philosohical basis, there is a void in my “big picture” conception. The longer this gaing hole exists, the more reasonable it seems that meaning is as much a selfish motivation as wealth, power, and influence.
The day, a microcosm of the week begore, was tangled and shar, with metal edges and some kind of sun0refracted gleam, bouncing brief periods of light amongst a lot of clouds. Having shot through the morning without much of a motif or theme, the day was really there for the taking, assuming as always the enrgy could be summoned to match a purpose. Henceforth, the question of meaning delayed, it was a celebration. Execute the day with recision. Nothing over the line, a proper mix of shading and red-eyed rawness that supports the self despite the lack of an underlying philosophy. Walk in the shoes of the folks who panic and conceptualize tragedy, but only for the experience. What a way to live! Irony to a degree that even the considerable powers of the mind towards rationalization and righteous justification can only approach in awe. Cognitive dissonance expressed in a million little ways. The never ending or admitted addiction to the tenuous belief that buried under the layers of bullshit was the answer to the most selfish of all prayers; somewhere, all of this means something. In other words, they might come to snff the rooster, but they never ask why. Fucking shit man, join me for a laugh.
No, seriously, it is one of those momentary “where am I” kind of reductionisms that would bore most people, including the author. There’s kool-aid splashing around my skull, and somewhere Austin Milbarge is wandering the desert looking for Tadzik Highway Patrol. Or was that earlier? Pacing is not a strong suit of mine, and with the cigarette supply being where that shit is, well, you know how it goes. Black and white movies on the television screen forecast that slowly fading day. What does it feel like to turn into a pumpkin? Holy fuck the last brain cell just went off shift for the evening, The sounds of Mr. Roboto swell around me. This kind of exhaustion beg for a nice place to lay down. I totally appreciate all of the kind folks now joining the night crew. Try not to shoot the messemger, and that should be enough for now. Fuck, the temperature is great for snoozing. See, I can leave you with gibberish that means less than Mr. Roboto’s secret. (He’s got a secret, as you know. Utter gibberish though.) Laughing, I now pass out.
