breaking down…

From the Diary of Sir Marshmellow Trowell
9.22.92

Terrible conditions from which to fight against dying tree leaves and shorter days. Desperation might be beautiful if it weren’t for the forced attempts to communicate what I don’t know how to say. Over and over again trying to explain how drowning works or why movement is desired but rarely achieved gets frustrating, alongside so much other debris. I gotta kick the can just to see the floor, that kind of thing. If it weren’t for cigarettes, I might have to revolt. Little can be gained from this whole enterprise, and I’m not sure how to explain it any better than that. Locked in here is staid; having broken my own spirit on the wheel… well, what next?

With the last of what’s to be found hanging out in the doorway and blocking every attempt to leave, everything seems like forever. Most of me is convinced that it’s all some type of coma-dream or narcoleptic state brought on by the collapse of some essential support system. The rest of me knows this is as real as it’s gonna get. Same as a recently killed pack of cigarettes. For most of the day you got backup; now you still got backup but it’s new backup. Nothing really changes and everything always changes. None of that can be true so it has to be.

Past these semantic overlays is the feeling of constant encumbrance. Moves like an ideal stallion, or maybe a bird of some kind with the strength to ignore down-drafts. I keep finding little chips and cracks; pieces of evidence that don’t point in any particular direction. Whaddya do with shit like that? Ask the question, answer the question, propose some kind of derelict reason, dress the whole thing as wisdom and play pretend? Doesn’t it all have to fall apart sooner or later? I can’t claim any kind of authority here. This is the what in taking what you get. Fuck it, right?

Searching for rationality can be a daunting prospect if you consistently look in the wrong places. I used to think advice was harmless until I began to listen to the advice I was handing out. Feeling particularly horrified by monotonous repetition, all the while nobody ever questioned if it was wisdom because of an unspoken yet agreed framework for busting through the seemingly insoluble. Simple in-group inclusion and the deed was done. I couldn’t help but wonder how much trouble I’d caused. Extrapolating from my own experiences with advice didn’t settle any nerves, instead pinching off Descartes greatest achievement (not my characterization, but you get the point) so I could pretend everything was going according to plan (it wasn’t.)

Well, another reason for the cosmic pencil to come equipped with an eraser. After all, the deed was done, all we had now was recognition and as many cigarettes as we could get our dirty hands on. Everything melds together if you wait long enough, so I suppose I could always join with the predestination crowd if my conscience kept throwing up the past until all I had left was stomach acid and a burning sensation.

Things could be worse; at least it didn’t burn to take a piss or any such bullshit. Nowadays, that’s cause for celebration, at least locally. Yet another in a long line of uncredited achievements gained by repetitious breathing and a little luck. That’s the comes in taking what comes. Moving past all of that madness, the constituent parts seem widely displaced. An overwhelming feeling forces me into a prone position on the floor. Faint whiff of dualism; every time I think it ain’t enough, it morphs into too much. Grass is green and the sky is blue. I know, I know. More JL masquerading as something other than what it is. Right now, I couldn’t be farther from caring about any of that shit. Wrap yourself in what you got on cold nights. Remember it’ll be just as dark on the warm nights. Take comfort, assuage hope, repeat as needed.

Yet here we are, on the verge of watching Casablanca play out one more time. Maybe there are a few rusting hooks in me. Like I said, could be worse. The last refuge I can think of is the desperation itself. It would be impossible to be desperate if there wasn’t something worth protecting, even if I don’t know what it is. There are only the barriers we need, and the price of admittance differs in each case. Playing pretend with rationality is a symptom of some hidden sickness or extreme curiosity, and whatever it is that feels like it still needs my protection, I am determined to play my part. The timing is bad and the rewards nonexistent. In other words, you have to sit somewhere, play that cards you’re dealt, insert whatever cliche you find least objectionable. I’m exhausted from trying to convince someone, anyone, that what tastes like blood and looks like blood can still be corn syrup. That is reduced luck and faith, distilled into 2 proof mouthwash that don’t burn or hurt. That’s where I’m going you know. Even Superman needed a place to hide out. I’m as far from him as you can get, so you see how this gives my case a good finish with a touch of gravitas.

Now is a good time to quit for the day. Cigarettes gotta burn if only for the calm nerves and relaxation to be more than a pipe-dream inspired by proto-evangelicals hyped up on speed and preaching like there’s no tomorrow. Careful where the advice comes from. Sorry I can’t do more. Guess we’ll find out if there is a future in oppositional attraction or if the whole thing is mythology. Gotta put your money somewhere. No use fighting for nothing.

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