Legend: When I use the tag "LIT", it's an acknowledgement that I'm appending a literal explanation to something I wrote that was unclear, in a way that could have the literary merit of helping a reader understand what I'm on about. Also I'm not being needlessly cryptic but instead trying to communicate real thoughts and feelings, at this late date, and break the habit of hiding in poetic prose, but still failing in this gerundtocracy, because it has to curl in on itself that way, like a dumb fucking bumfighting jester.
So, I was thinking about harm reduction. [LIT: more specifically, the question: would it be a legit request to ask my wife for permission to just get stoned on thc, and promise to not mess around with anything else? And could it be a harm reducing activity, so that I could feel like things were extra profound and my life was kinda like a music video, without resorting to much more dangerous drugs?] It could motivate me to do stuff, like write more, and play more music. Even if only 1% of that motivation leads to action. That's still 99% more stuff getting done than when in the endless wastes of the non-stoned desert.
Beryllium could tell, she said. When I was writing on my blog stoned. Cause she actually read it enough to compare entries. It was a rare pleasure, when someone or other special to me read my words. I wouldn't have to trick anyone into it. Not that I would now, but I think about doing it sometimes. Funny, watching that Kids in the Hall skit with Erin this morning. Don't we all look into the inky abyss of our souls sometimes and find the roar of the loneliness there... deafening? Kevin McDonald, the best of the contemptuous friends, and even him, having to admit he just skimmed Bruce McCulloch's suicide note looking for his own name. That's the best you get, Bruce. It's something, you'd better take it, there's no better offer coming. And good thing you did put Kevin's name in the suicide note, so there was something for him to read, like a good writer of a brief for president trump.
Fuck it, we're still in the bad timeline. This bad timeline is fiendish in its malice, because it allows just enough non-horrific things to happen to keep ya from switching to the coping mechanism of accepting that you're in a pro-wrestling-themed hell-world, Hulk Hogan on one side and Jesse 'The Body' Ventura on the other, and going with that nauseating ride for better or worse, so ya can have expectations of a future, and maybe even one for someone else's kids. But then it yanks that hope away from you like a bully playing keep-away, and you wake up from the Kamala Harris hangover and realize that it's still a choice between genocide and genocide, with maybe slightly slower heat-death.
Maybe the clathrate gun hypothesis is just good fodder for sci-fi, like I was proposing to Erin on the beach, will you continue to marry me, my sweet little pug, and also, I'm proposing that the clathrate gun scenario is not necessarily going to cause the entire planet to broil in a runaway greenhouse effect, terminating in a Venus-like Earth. And I'm also proposing that maybe evidence for release of hydrate-related methane to the atmosphere is lacking, and it won't foreclose on our own futures, cutting them down to a decade or two max. I've come to see that you don't need any encouragement to succumb to hopelessness on the micro and macro, and I don't need to be describing sciency-sounding scenarios in half-assed paraphrases of things I read on wikipedia, after chatting with someone on twitter who also claimed to be a former NSA whistleblower being hunted by the feds on behalf of the oil cartels, who also claimed to know about reverse engineered alien technology -- playing pundit or podcast bro, cause I know politics or something, heh. There's a turd in the punchbowl, the ET tech guy, my john titor, as I said to t, who introduced me to the supposed time-traveler guy.
Erin doesn't need this rap, she's doomy enough already, and it's not like I'm some kind of authority. I wish I didn't feel like I know as much as I do. Cause I dunno, who knows if I know anything? But there's a creepy feeling that I do, enough that I should be panicking, except I'm in the bad timeline that will allow me to think that there's no such thing, there's no devil, the greatest trick and all that, and it's just THE timeline that's perfectly normal and natural, so whatever I find horrifying is just me being unable to cope. And being unable to cope is just something that happens, to some people, and I'm just some person, not terminally unique, but unique enough to feel uniquely awful, but that's just normal and natural, and I'm just deputized to be the copeless ditch digger of the trenches for the last war.
Sometimes there was h. Sometimes there was c. Sometimes there was the other t. Sometimes there was s, but so what? Rarely there's Erin, probably good for avoiding new reasons to go to couples' counselling, what am I doing putting her in my complaints? Hasn't been l in years. Hasn't been m in decades. Could be t if I could be bothered to make an effort, he'd meet me halfway. And I do owe the other m an email for chissakes, why do I slack, and then expect the world to line up for the gratification of this hedonism bot?
Fair enough if we can't read what each other writes, aren't we all brain damaged by now, literally and figuratively? I might as well give in to participating in what everyone else is doing every time we talk, and let loose with age cliches, and monologues on the horrors of getting old, and talk about the jump scare of looking in the mirror and feeling like an amnesiac waking up in the body of a corpse.
I like fragments that can reflect each other, reflect on each other, reflect off each other, and multiply potential interpretation, instead of a dull cut and dried intent, it's a rolling fractal kaleidoscope of intention, rhyming meanings, synonyms, antonyms. But then the play of light gets too brilliant, out-smarts itself, the light becomes lite, airy fairy meaning lessness, stuff and nonsense. I can play on my keyboard for the first time in months, and the novelty of dusting off an old habit creates something that feels worthwhile, for the moment, at least.
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