The Lull Continues

I'm writing again, because it's that time in the cycle. Barely plugging the hole in the brain's chem bucket. I'll revel in recently exhausted tritisms, flash in the pan neologisms, soon to appear in the bargain bin of Fuck Your Town.

I can't remember how the cycle goes exactly. But I remember, there've often been lulls of this length. Environmental factors can get me out of them, changes in circumstance, but so far nothing powerful enough has come to pass.

And still that damn unspoken addiction, plaguing me even when I'm sick. Unfiltered drones.

I could go to that park beside the highway - that would be novel. I thought about getting rid of all my hair. Don't know if I'm ready for that level of novelty. Maybe I should save that as a reaction to severe trauma.

Still that damn unspoken addiction.

Times like these, drugs become appealing again, because if everything's fake and meaningless anyway, might as well go for guaranteed stimulation - even if it brings guaranteed depression fairly quickly. Times like these, chemical happiness seems realer than whatever paltry feeling I can get by twisting against the circumstances of my ridiculous life. Chemicals are real.

That damn unspoken addiction, what the fuck is it? Of course, it's not the root of any real problems. Or maybe it is, undetectable except through the harmonies of alien jazz. Like Jamie's licorice. From Chadwick's. A malevolent cosmic ray. The mistakes I made that allow me to love my own work and yet be eternally frustrated. No, not eternally. Transiently. In this little slice of life. Not all possibilities were realized. Not all opportunities were taken.

Things will be different in June. One way or another. Mr. Dilato might make a re-appearance. The Conjuring. The Clowning. Dilato in the X-ing with Medicine. I might get kinetic synesthetic calisthenics again. I might not. The thousand year epoch might continue. How that will jive with June I can't say.

I've got to stop going for that olfactory flavor. It's so easy. Doesn't seem to be ostensibly damaging, but I wonder. It disturbs me. I don't have anywhere near the energy required to de-condition myself. And it doesn't put me through the trite rock'n'roll life'n'death drama, so I won't be shocked out of it.

Chess, backgammon. There was a time when I would have latched onto those incidental associations - woven them into a glossolalic arabesque. Maybe if they were accompanied by the above mentioned calisthenics. Kinetic, natch. Chess on acid. Peter Griffin freaking out on Claymation. It's too real! We all had a good laugh at that. It was a happy time, why does it seem so sad in retrospect? Damn retroscope. And the fondest memories come from some of the crappiest times. I can harbor nostalgia when I know how it ends. When a rosy tint will support a linear bias. When I'm out of the shackles of the moment, the moment of paranoia and sickness.

Sick-itch, incidental to the unspoken addiction, or dendritically attached in sketchy cause-and-effect shuffle? I couldn't help acquiring cosmic consciousness - it's often a stone to drag around. Ironic, it came on strong in good stones, in the form of good stones, then in bad stones, sickness and health. But time seems linear, and sickness seems to win. Wavefront bearing frothing foam onto the dead beachhead, Beachedwhale-Upon-Anzio. I could bring Jonah into this, but I won't. I'll showcase lowercase artistic discipline, I'll be the pretentious prosecutor of pretense.

Funny how I had to force myself to write, and ended up not wanting to stop. Even though it's all bullshit. Well it makes the flowers grow, so the discordians say. I'll sing the discordian accord in the psychic warzone - the munitions manifest as landscape scarring explosions. Just another European dispute - they could have gone longer, that war weary collection of countries. They could have gone for the record. Would it have mattered? I hope my will to live doesn't extend to the point of the ridiculous.