A rambling battle with incoherence that ends up somewhere, somehow.
I haven't written. Not nearly enough.
I can't write. I can’t seem to do it anymore. It hurts, you know. It hurts to be this way, to be bubbling and burning and boiling over. But the only analogy that comes to mind is a can of beans tossed into a fire. What the fuck is that? It certainly isn’t very interesting or engrossing. What the fuck is that? Is that the best I have these days? A fucking can of beans? What the fuck is that? What the fuck is this? Who is this, typing this out, shoving it into his own eyes for the sake of nothingness? My word, my my.
If only it were intelligent.
Then something would be happening, a place of unity would be reached, the word and the mind, working in tandem as they always should. But they’re failing. Separate but equal? No such thing, not in these shallow waters. Without the other, either of them will wither. Which will go first remains to be seen, but it will be seen, and it will be shown. Televised for all to see, the breakdown of self, by way of the most ridunkulous prospect the world has yet to see. You think American gladiators was the best we could manage? You think Jerry Springer was the residue at the bottom of the cesspool? You aint seen nothing, chief. I got something for ya.
This is the thought of a man who fails to think. Or fails to communicate, whichever is the right. I can’t tell you, I can’t think, or I can’t communicate, that’s the goddamn point. Or haven’t you been paying attention? Did I lose you back there, back where you sit, chatting with your F’s and your F.O.A.F’s, not really saying anything, but sure, being happy. A little happy. Something.
It’s always something, at least with you, don’t you think? Different from me, this you. Problems broad, problems all, moving from person to person, completely different, but with something just the same. What the fuck is this? Who the fuck is this? Oh, bugger off, ya brolly.
From this place, I can see the profile of a man. He’s sitting, elbows resting atop his knees, his posture slouched in a manner that almost matched my own. He’s smoking, the cigarette terminating in a pair of lips I cannot see, all surrounded by an impressive beard that I really can see. He’s standing, now. I don’t even know what I’m talking about. Someone, give me a topic. Give me cohesion. Give me a rant, give me something that I can fixate on, if only for a moment. Because if I don’t, and if all I can focus on is the one thing that I’ve been focusing on for far too long…then I’ll lose it. I fear I might lose my words, and if I lose the words, I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do. It hurts. Right now, this hurts. I’m trying to sate my desire to write, to dull the throb that has its own dullness, the own that works its way throughout my body on a path that just now reminds me of Pai Mei’s infamous vital points. But this doesn’t save me from getting kicked in the cock, this only serves to wheedle in the depths of my conscious body, being so hard to find.
I can’t tell if this is making it better or worse. God fucking damnit. Who the fuck is this? It isn’t me, not the me that I like to be around. This is one of me. The one that obsesses and confuses, that sits in a corner drooling like a disgusting Saint Bernard, getting the slop of these non-thoughts all over the carpet. Jesus fuck damn crap ass hell bitch, with sugar on top. What the fuck was that?
I really should stop this now. I’m just winding up and getting more frustrated, what with the inability to form rational ideas, even though the idea of ideas seem so delectable right now. If I could find one to grasp, to hold in my fingers and know that in some little way, that it belonged to me…that would help, I think. But since I’m not thinking, that thought could prove to be deceptive. A thought from the depths of thoughtlessness is something that I fear to even consider comprehending, but if I can find nothing else, that might be the something that I grasp upon for hope. But if my something is built on nothing, what does that make the end? And if there somehow is an end, what can be the means? And where the hell is my goddamn poppy-seed muffin? And why the fuck am I not stopping to take a piss?
It’d certainly be more helpful to my state of mind, I guess, hell, maybe even know. So, think, try to think, try to know something.
It’s Saint Patrick’s Day.
It’s raining.
Hmm.
In Los Angeles, people get gripped by something whenever it rains. Some kind of deep-seated hysteria, something that comes from within them, from the same place that drives people to fear anything, the fear of confusion and doubt. OHMYGODITSRAINING. In this town, most people drive. And shock and awe, during times of rain, most drive while gripped in madness. Either their feet gain the properties of lead, transforming into a clubfoot that weighs down on the pedal, skimming through the newly slick ground - OR - the become as timid as a child about to venture into their grandparents spooky attic, creeping along, listening to everything as if it were going to swallow them whole.
Together, the two types don’t fare well. But of course, they always seem to meet. Violently.
It’s Saint Patrick’s Day.
The vaguely defined holiday that people use as an excuse to get sloshed, whatever their color or creed, whatever faith they kneel before, whatever, whatever; it becomes an excuse. The excuse to slam grey goose and feel every which-way but loose. And you know what? Whatever, whatever, you do what you please, and I really don’t care as long as you keep your pools of hot-and-sour sick off my stylish yet affordable hiking boots. But people have their excuse. And in Los Angeles, people usually drive.
It’s raining.
It’s Saint Patrick’s Day.
Soon night will fall.
And people have their excuse.
Oh dear.
It just might be, that this night, many people are going to die.
Through the machinations of happenstance and circumstance, things are going to happen, things which shouldn’t happen, things which HOPEFULLY, will not happen. I hope they don’t. But something tells me…Oh dear.
So I suppose that I’ve reached a conclusion, of sorts. Not a good one. Not one that helps my mind, not one that brings me to you, so that we may laugh together, a rolling boil of merriment and mirth. A free boil, not that stupid fucking can of beans. I’m not there. I’m right here.
The bearded fellow is gone, as is the person who was sitting next to me, the one who I didn’t even think of mentioning. But now, I wonder where they’ve both gone. Where they’re both going. What they’re going to do. Where they’ll be, in just a few short hours. What the fuck is this? Who the fuck is this?
What does that matter?
A better question? “Who the fuck are they?” “Where the fuck are they going to be?”
I’ll never know. My head still isn’t clear, my ramblings are still incoherent, and it seems that my mouth is dry, like the sandy bottom of Toru Okada’s well. But I’m here. My friends are there, and my sister is everywhere. At the moment I think that they’re alright.
What matters?
That they stay that way.
If I love you, please be well.
Please.
I can't write. I can’t seem to do it anymore. It hurts, you know. It hurts to be this way, to be bubbling and burning and boiling over. But the only analogy that comes to mind is a can of beans tossed into a fire. What the fuck is that? It certainly isn’t very interesting or engrossing. What the fuck is that? Is that the best I have these days? A fucking can of beans? What the fuck is that? What the fuck is this? Who is this, typing this out, shoving it into his own eyes for the sake of nothingness? My word, my my.
If only it were intelligent.
Then something would be happening, a place of unity would be reached, the word and the mind, working in tandem as they always should. But they’re failing. Separate but equal? No such thing, not in these shallow waters. Without the other, either of them will wither. Which will go first remains to be seen, but it will be seen, and it will be shown. Televised for all to see, the breakdown of self, by way of the most ridunkulous prospect the world has yet to see. You think American gladiators was the best we could manage? You think Jerry Springer was the residue at the bottom of the cesspool? You aint seen nothing, chief. I got something for ya.
This is the thought of a man who fails to think. Or fails to communicate, whichever is the right. I can’t tell you, I can’t think, or I can’t communicate, that’s the goddamn point. Or haven’t you been paying attention? Did I lose you back there, back where you sit, chatting with your F’s and your F.O.A.F’s, not really saying anything, but sure, being happy. A little happy. Something.
It’s always something, at least with you, don’t you think? Different from me, this you. Problems broad, problems all, moving from person to person, completely different, but with something just the same. What the fuck is this? Who the fuck is this? Oh, bugger off, ya brolly.
From this place, I can see the profile of a man. He’s sitting, elbows resting atop his knees, his posture slouched in a manner that almost matched my own. He’s smoking, the cigarette terminating in a pair of lips I cannot see, all surrounded by an impressive beard that I really can see. He’s standing, now. I don’t even know what I’m talking about. Someone, give me a topic. Give me cohesion. Give me a rant, give me something that I can fixate on, if only for a moment. Because if I don’t, and if all I can focus on is the one thing that I’ve been focusing on for far too long…then I’ll lose it. I fear I might lose my words, and if I lose the words, I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do. It hurts. Right now, this hurts. I’m trying to sate my desire to write, to dull the throb that has its own dullness, the own that works its way throughout my body on a path that just now reminds me of Pai Mei’s infamous vital points. But this doesn’t save me from getting kicked in the cock, this only serves to wheedle in the depths of my conscious body, being so hard to find.
I can’t tell if this is making it better or worse. God fucking damnit. Who the fuck is this? It isn’t me, not the me that I like to be around. This is one of me. The one that obsesses and confuses, that sits in a corner drooling like a disgusting Saint Bernard, getting the slop of these non-thoughts all over the carpet. Jesus fuck damn crap ass hell bitch, with sugar on top. What the fuck was that?
I really should stop this now. I’m just winding up and getting more frustrated, what with the inability to form rational ideas, even though the idea of ideas seem so delectable right now. If I could find one to grasp, to hold in my fingers and know that in some little way, that it belonged to me…that would help, I think. But since I’m not thinking, that thought could prove to be deceptive. A thought from the depths of thoughtlessness is something that I fear to even consider comprehending, but if I can find nothing else, that might be the something that I grasp upon for hope. But if my something is built on nothing, what does that make the end? And if there somehow is an end, what can be the means? And where the hell is my goddamn poppy-seed muffin? And why the fuck am I not stopping to take a piss?
It’d certainly be more helpful to my state of mind, I guess, hell, maybe even know. So, think, try to think, try to know something.
It’s Saint Patrick’s Day.
It’s raining.
Hmm.
In Los Angeles, people get gripped by something whenever it rains. Some kind of deep-seated hysteria, something that comes from within them, from the same place that drives people to fear anything, the fear of confusion and doubt. OHMYGODITSRAINING. In this town, most people drive. And shock and awe, during times of rain, most drive while gripped in madness. Either their feet gain the properties of lead, transforming into a clubfoot that weighs down on the pedal, skimming through the newly slick ground - OR - the become as timid as a child about to venture into their grandparents spooky attic, creeping along, listening to everything as if it were going to swallow them whole.
Together, the two types don’t fare well. But of course, they always seem to meet. Violently.
It’s Saint Patrick’s Day.
The vaguely defined holiday that people use as an excuse to get sloshed, whatever their color or creed, whatever faith they kneel before, whatever, whatever; it becomes an excuse. The excuse to slam grey goose and feel every which-way but loose. And you know what? Whatever, whatever, you do what you please, and I really don’t care as long as you keep your pools of hot-and-sour sick off my stylish yet affordable hiking boots. But people have their excuse. And in Los Angeles, people usually drive.
It’s raining.
It’s Saint Patrick’s Day.
Soon night will fall.
And people have their excuse.
Oh dear.
It just might be, that this night, many people are going to die.
Through the machinations of happenstance and circumstance, things are going to happen, things which shouldn’t happen, things which HOPEFULLY, will not happen. I hope they don’t. But something tells me…Oh dear.
So I suppose that I’ve reached a conclusion, of sorts. Not a good one. Not one that helps my mind, not one that brings me to you, so that we may laugh together, a rolling boil of merriment and mirth. A free boil, not that stupid fucking can of beans. I’m not there. I’m right here.
The bearded fellow is gone, as is the person who was sitting next to me, the one who I didn’t even think of mentioning. But now, I wonder where they’ve both gone. Where they’re both going. What they’re going to do. Where they’ll be, in just a few short hours. What the fuck is this? Who the fuck is this?
What does that matter?
A better question? “Who the fuck are they?” “Where the fuck are they going to be?”
I’ll never know. My head still isn’t clear, my ramblings are still incoherent, and it seems that my mouth is dry, like the sandy bottom of Toru Okada’s well. But I’m here. My friends are there, and my sister is everywhere. At the moment I think that they’re alright.
What matters?
That they stay that way.
If I love you, please be well.
Please.
posted by Your friend, the fool at 4:01 PM
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