memoir pamphlet, S07E16

I built a rickety bridge to greener pastures. I'm crossing back and forth any time I please. But the workmanship is shoddy. But brilliant. But shoddy. If I do say so myself. 

"Zot's za spirit, lahd! Gd-r-reener pastyoores!" That's what I said to him, the guy who belted out tunes at the royal, as if my memories are worth anything, but let's pretend for a sec. Needs some context though. We'll call him Aaron. I'll come up with a better name later. He was like a groovy glam rocker. Turns into a black man sometimes. It's not black face, it's just music, man. Played the lead in Jesus Christ Superstar. Jesus Christ, I should have gone seen it and appreciated.

I was trying to do the voice of a soused scottish lad, encouraging his mate not to give up the post-divorce party agenda because of one rejection - what a weighty downer word, forget that shit. Go to the greener pastures where Roxanne is. Back when they had that plywood-bordered smoking section. Or wait, I'm misremembering that, I'm conflating a memory from, I dunno 2006, with one from 2003. Big difference, one was pre smoking in bars, the other was post. That night with Aaron was post. No cigarette haze in the air, but certainly the scent of piss and wildhoney. That was a constant, I hope it carries through still, whatever they call the place now. I don't think they'll ever change the name. Long after the name of twitter is changed to x and back a hundred times, the Royal will still be the Royal.

There's a great quixotic quest to bridge state boundaries, of every type. Communication, during masturbation. The state or condition of being a crank yankee. Good ol' yankee brilliance and practical know-how, to invent a swivel chair with all the free time from slaves doing all the work and then to declare independence from the tyrant masters of the mother country, to animate the talking mice in disney's head, and much later, build the apparatus that will allow a few elite meritocrats to escape the planet and seed the stars. The mushroom may have told McKenna something like that, the better McKenna bro who did the decent thing and died before His 2012 prophecy, meanwhile we still got assholes like John Hagee going around talking about the unmistakable signs of the end times, not the ones he was talking about in 2014 that lead to nothing, no, the ones in 2023 that are for sure this time, it's a lock.

I might not write anything at all if there's too many rules. So forget the rules then, any agendas too. I might not do anything but for something. Is that something? It's too obvious a flow. Obviously. Glued together, but glue flows, it's liquid dnb, will harden to a solid, it'll do me a solid, myself and no one else. Cause it'll mortar an edifice of empty structure, and the structure will be messy, like a collapsed wire mesh around a trashed garden. A hedge maze of tire tracks and card tricks.

Pretty soon, I'll try and synthesize some writings, and post about "the one that did it", the DXM trip in the recent past that got so out of hand that it got me off a path, and onto another one, derailed me all the way to victoria, dissolved and re-formed my marriage. I never posted about it, was too real, reamed me out, left me raw, in ruins. But there's a few notes scattered amongst that wreckage. Can I salvage anything, and bridge the towering walls of the boundary to that state, and actually write about it, and really remember anything? Really not sure, am kind of afraid to even try. Most of the time I lack the confidence to attempt difficult artistic work, the emotional stakes of maybe failing feel too heavy, so I keep putting it off.