I wrote some fucked up email, consumed with petty ridiculosities, making everything worse by twisting it into some lingual construct of grandiose emotional projection.
I took a walk outside, it was gray and gorgeous, a storm was brewing. Fit my mood like a glove. I was anointed in raindrops, swept clean by the wind.
I thought about going back and writing apologetic second guessing messages to blunt the impact of the original mess, but then I thought of that great old zenism: If you're gonna wobble, wobble well. Stagger like a fucking pro. So often, situations can benefit from the application of confidence, where conventional wisdom would dictate that it's inappropriate. It's okay to go off every now and then. So if I'm gonna do that, I'm not gonna second guess myself.
I was thinking, as I walked through the woodsy slope, toward a tasteful housing development cut into the forest like a bladerunner's incision: Let this storm turn into a full fledged hurricane, destroy these houses, flood the streets, rip trees out of the ground, send cars flying, smash, destroy! Maybe it will be good in the grand scheme, bring people together to rebuild, create a purpose that doesn't involve pettiness and politics.
But I did second guess that, because I get superstitious sometimes, and it occurred to me that I shouldn't whistle for the wind unless I want it to blow. No, I'm not wishing property damage on you, yuppies, I don't have the heart to fuck with the rich and powerful more than I already have done in my rebellious commie youth.
But I tell her, I can't not be rocky when I'm listening to Blue Oyster Cult!
I'm not consumed with bitterness anymore. I allowed myself to indulge in that for a few hours, but there are better things to do and think about. Like how much Blue Oyster Cult rocks - I'd only listened to the big hit, the one that everybody knows, don't fear the reaper (both cowbell and non-cowbell version), but holy fuck, the rest of their stuff kicks ass too. Got Tyranny and Mutation rocking the house tonight. Flaming Telepaths. Amazing how many musicians who came after ripped them off. Okay, not ripped off, paid homage. Cause if I get to pay homage to Prokofiev, Rzewski, Keith Jarrett, ELP, and the Mars Volta, all in one song - folks can pay homage to BOC.
I was wrapped up in some dramas. Felt like the vast majority of my attempts to reach out to humanity have gotten me nothing in return but a bad case of blueballs. Figuratively. It will be good for my mental health not to do that for a while.
I did a faggy thing once which almost had me babbling, like I was caught up in some congressional nightmare: I am not, nor have I ever been a member of the homosexual agenda. But instead, I decided to play it cool and not worry. It was a fun night, and I refused to allow people’s misconceptions to enflame potential neuroses. But Lord help me if I dressed well - there'd be enough misconceptions to fuel sitcom plots for a whole season, plus the DVD extras. And I still love my hair, it's almost as erudite as my prose. Hehe.
Tasty hair topping a lucious face. My girl is the queen of the amazon delta. And sometimes queen of herself. She's great to write out the storm with. We got preserves in the basement.
She was gonna do a pagan ritual last night, but she thought her Frida Kahlo bling was blocking energies. No, she didn't say it like that. But yes, she is a flake, the finest flake I've ever known.
Sometimes we clash in catastrophic ways, but we’re more alike than any two people I know as far as being on the same wavelength, understanding certain human truths, being subject to similar frailties. Interstellar Mistress of Mystery.
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