Hi boys and girls! Sorry I didn't write last night - I'd been drinking. Not a lot, but I fell victim to alcohol's classic poor judgement encouragement and decided to smoke a joint. Don't get me wrong, I don't mean to say it wasn't pleasant, because it was - very much so - but it precluded me from writing anything coherent. There was something I'd written, an excerpt from my travels home, but I don't know what I was getting at; I'll include it at the end of this post and let you figure it out.
Alcohol turns us into slobbering, slurring, ravenous beasts bearing fangs, mouths agape with long limp tongues, hellbent on the pursuit of undiscovered treasure. Blindly we pace and race around in the night, metal detectors chirping madly, like ticking bombs, pulled this way and that by our crazed craving. So it goes.
The sun looks like it's trying to come out but the clouds/fog won't let it. I meant to get up early and go on a photo hike but, when I woke at 7:00 I thought sleep sounded more preferable; tomorrow, tomorrow. Today, though, I don't know what I want from the day. I do know that my preference is to abstain from drinking, but it is hard when you've drank the night before; the memory, too damp to forget, wishes to be whet.
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Overhead, planes move like flies in water. Around me whirring highway lines materialize and re-materialize, bounding. The alcohol zips past between the dashed lines of my crimson-colored veins. Thornless stems of liquid roses rushing, racing.
I want drugs. Some good ecstasy maybe. Bitter and harsh on the tongue, but sweet and soft on mind and body, as good ecstasy always is. It is a wonder drug, full of warmth and awe and magic and mystery, ushering in that beautifully sublime, benevolent susceptibility to contentment.
I realize what little good complaining does us; missed opportunities at happiness and satisfaction, all of them. Though, sometimes, this is the very cause of the complaint.
Maybe pot, instead. It's easier. A few puffs and I'll be transported to a foreign and familiar land. Music will be more tactile, super lush, and those sensuous sonic landscapes will nourish my soul. It'll be more contemplative, too. I'll dissect my motives and ask myself why I'm home alone in my apartment, smoking weed, listening to music, a tried and true recluse, introverted, painfully analytical. Mmmmmmm, pot.
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