Pulpit Rock thots

It's been a while. Chattering people to my left. Mother and kids. I'm not annoyed. I can see the cuteness in their sustenance. The afternoon absorption of a luxurious vantage. But vicarious doesn't do it for me. Won't distract me from the void. This yearning for someone to talk with, a stranger, a female with whom to savor sexual tension. Maybe I should invite globber to mail me, but I can't think of a smooth way to do that. Maybe I should do it rough then. What rough beast?

I can't have people knowing the true extent of my desperation. Thus, I never know how to get what I want - penetrate the neuroses, the hangups, the social disease, the scars of having my place in the hierarchy of humanity firmly and blatantly established as a confused and slow-learning adolescent, escaping through games, films, and revenge fantasies.

I'm sitting on the mountaintop, writing in my sacred denver notebook, the one Dez got me. We had a good time in denver. We always have a good time. We're so right for each other that the righteousness overwhelms the wrong. Most of the time.

I told her of the need for novelty. Figured it was time to just be blatant about it, it was in the subtext of everything said anyway.

It's been about four years since I was here on Pulpit Rock, in total despair, thinking Dez had ditched me to live in Vancouver. But she didn't. She made it to Nelson. She gave me the gift of her love. Gave me someone to love.

Emotions continue to dictate a grotesque portion of my thoughts and behavior, but I know that although soul-mates are rare and precious, sex and flesh are terribly tantalizingly omnipresent, and I'm going insane in my complacency.

Omar Khayam's mountains grin smug crinkles of continental drift. The sacredity used to be enough to sustain me. The sanctity, accredited by me, of my home, my town, my valley - it was all I needed. Now I need more. It's not that I'm so burned out I can no longer appreciate the mountains and the woods, and the big pink government building I'll be entering to try and acquire EI money on Monday if I can get off my ass to make my weary pragmatic way down there. But another void has opened up in expanding human experience. The goddamned glory hole. Do the schizo-affective asperger-tourette's twist! It goes like this! You got it!

Ah, don't mind me, I'm just a hungover crybaby this afternoon, paying dearly for my reckless and futile pursuit of pleasure. I should take up meditation, if I can ever manage to stop feeling breath as freaky. Maybe I could reconcile with consciousness.