Transitional Fossil

" The question isn't "who is going to let me"; it's "who is going to stop me".
Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

Friday, June 08, 2007

Swinging Scratch

There are only ecohes which surround me. It's so quiet. That was the first thing I wanted to write. So quiet.
You can hear me breathing completely in appeciation for the motion. But I breathe alone. Looking around I have come to the desert, picked grains of sand and begun forging glass.

I reach up and discover the lightwith my hands. Unfortunately that's not what we're supposed to do. Labelling that as superstition, I outstretch anyway.
Letting go of all I hold inside. Finding no solace in others. Wanting to be by myself. Drink slowly, says I, my dealer wipes off the bottle of Strega. He sees clear, liquid. I see oblivion.
Oh the obvious hypocrisy at seeking death, 'at the end of a candle' in every day life. Like air at the bottom of a river.

3rd beer and I've learned how not to have it overflow. It affects the typing so. Research for advertising methods has fallen away to the numbness of the forthcoming day.
But does it matter Comtemplation of frolicking with my friends. Those days would never end. In the sun. Oh the smiles which build cities, and make the monotony
and the unnecessary vanish. Wish you were here and I was there. We'd miss eachother by miles.

I have this picture of me on the my first grasp of the Pacific ever, with arms outsteched. It's where I want to be again. In the midst of Paradise with Eve. Putting the picture against the screen I realize she caught her thumb in the picture. Longing for coffee I must some Time give into sleep. Sandals-in-hand I deny the Sandman his due as my per view stretches into infinity.

There are no surfers in Sicily. Bah. Ceres will guide me. For there is no longer us. Just me and the stars. Alone on the Friday. The tablet day. It's amazing how my mind creates importance. But there is none, truly. It's all persective and contrast as many have taught. And in the morning I will reach for this box and think to myself, what magnanimous verbal draws I have made here to-night. Only to realize that they are but the ordinary ramblings of a man who hath imbibed too much.

The path of Forgetting is never easy. Particularly for us with a audiographic memory.

Hush until morn, my fawn.

R.E.M., "Drive"
Primitive Radio Gods, "Motor of Joy"
The Misfits, "Last Caress"
Finger Eleven, "One Thing"
Dave Attell, "The Unfuckables"
Flogging Molly, "What's Left of the Flag"
Madonna, "Crazy for You"
Madonna, "You'll see"


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