might as well

I can’t seem to write for myself as often as I’d like, of late. If I could, I could say stuff, like I’ve got plenty of valerian left. I guess it’s a good thing I’m not left to my own devices, with pills like valium, cause then I’d probably be an addict, pretty quick. I just get my pretty downers from finch whenever I’m in a pretty fix, she’s pretty helpful at times. She told me I should never do heroin, she’s probably right. I could see myself falling in love with a drug. Though it hasn’t happened yet. It’s been nothing but infatuation, thus far.

If I think it’s worthwhile, I’ll strip mine it for public consumption, I guess.

So, as long as we’re being honest with myself here – it’s different, this setting. I really should do it more often, but self revelation, without fitting into societies, is like a thing of the past to me these days. Tripping. I don’t do it anymore. Maybe I lost something. I just smoked a sweet bowl of my sweetie pie weed. It was sweet. For a while, I thought I had the fast track to the unintelligible passion of the bliss ninny. Man, I had poetry that sounds unreadable to myself now. Knowledge is stupid, as Beavis, or Butthead said. Jaded bullshit. Maybe I missed my chance to be the Doors. Now I gotta be something else. Something that will end in a random bullet through the chest. I’ll never recover.

Something very grotesque about this emerging generation. How could it not be though? Maybe we need a world war to build character. But no, I don’t think so. I don’t have the stomach for it, and I kind of respect people with a similar sickness threshold.

So, with guilt clamping down on arrested developments, we’ve got to get them while they’re younger, to maintain some sort of purity, some sort of enthusiasm for life and its possibilities, at this stage in the clusterfucke. Chemical fertilizer.

Is it supposed to be a fog? What is clarifying fog? Maybe it’s Gof’s great gaffe.

Connected. It’s not so great. But now I can’t seem to get unconnected. Online can trigger almost the same angst that a beautiful feminine face can. Yeah. I can’t seem to be alone with myself any more. It’s so weird. The “old days” being DXM addled college years. Heh. Impossible to make sense of anything, but even that is old hat. Yeah.

Another Owen Wilson/Ben Stiller movie.

Your mental furniture can change, there’s such a range. One year, you’re thinking about fractal waves of fire… ultimately, what you’re touching is the invisible, all-pervasive intelligence that surrounds us and penetrates us… the next, you’re pondering Timothy McVeigh, you’re hung up on the politics and semantics of the anthill. Wait, universal swarm of intelligence? And there are UFOlogists clamoring for something, on the hidden track. I’m laughing WITH the aesthetic, not AT it. I sometimes wish I could go back to the old self, even if it was so silly, so ridiculous. Ludicrous. Awkward, now, it seems, but not then. Not then. Then it was smooth. It had an internal logic. An internal clock, right twice a day. Crayon-drawn geometry.

Innocence is innocent. It just proves what drama I’m locked into. It’s a morality play sans religion. Maybe the mystic bullshit just has yet to be fashioned, for this particular exotic stage in the human condition. Maybe I should start a religion, maybe that is my calling, as a potential businessman, keeping the machine of capitalism well-oiled. People think capitalism is with us, for good or ill, part of being human. Well I can’t deny, it’s part of being a modern human, how could it not be? Commies were pretty brass, declaring themselves antithetical to the prevailing paradigm. That takes some chutzpah. But Albert was right, most people are not in the movement to win – in this part of society that is. So, it’s in a pretty sorry state here. I can be in solidarity with the true warriors of the cause, the freedom fighters, but solidarity is all I offer. A stitch in a rebel gunstrap. And I’m hardly anything approaching vitriolic these days. Mostly just confused, sometimes in an indignant way, like somebody owes me purpose, like I didn’t shrug my shoulders and say it’s a… no, not a big nothing. But what then? Maybe it is the nothing. Maybe cough syrup warmed me up for death, but I think I got rusty again. Got hooked on life, kept drinking beer, made a practice of sloth, a headdress of weariness, stopped reading books, like there was nothing new to read.