working through it...

I'm penning shit... again. Why? Maybe it's because I'm not using a pen... not pressing ink to paper... crinkly paper where I can feel the friction... hear the scratch and maybe it's just because I'm not angry enough, not drunk enough, not inhaling enough toxin. So I'm penning shit. I'm not in deep enough... skimming too many surfaces because of too many distractions. Where is my beloved sensory deprivation. I've lost the way through layers laid; not by me... maybe by me. I've hit a wall--thick, rough to the touch... skin abrasioned but the mind is glazed dull. Unable to get where others have gone... unable without a pit stop via a drunkin'-smokin'-foul toxic inebriation. Buzz me. Too many years of the mundane. Time to go totally insane.

So the remedy is a Blue Sapphire gin martini-- extra dry with a jalapeno. Fucking hot and then onward downhill... something degenerative toward rotgut. Rotgut gets ya deep.

Sometimes when my mind empties, when picture prose and gutter rhyme connections become unlinkable, I get cerebral cramps and frustration bores auger-like, pulling chunks of gray matterless meat out of my skull with each revolution. I revert into a primal subhuman form and get unreasonably cranky... pissy, intolerably uncooperative, and wonder if an exile on hermit street would not be an inadequate self admonishment. The problem is, by the time I become aware of when I've reached this state of unbeing, I've got most people around me running for the hills. Without the freedom of self expression and it's many forms to apply release, things may have or still could get socially unacceptable... best to lock the door.

So I stand a slave to the word, servitude to an it, not a who... and Dylan was wrong. You don't have to serve anybody, you just end up serfing whether you like it or not. Because servitude becomes an indentured process and demands adherence and gets rather abusive once that line of submission is crossed.

The other night, an owner of a public watering hole within a greater whole served me pan fried oysters. I gorged upon them, washing them down with a hoppy foam covered brew. The effects of that overindulgence was still felt at 3am even though they were just delivered fresh, shucked fresh, dipped into a just blended egg wash, rolled in bread crumbs, and then after a rather high heat treatment, they gave themselves up and were served... to me... by a server. No where within that process did I feel superiorily entitled. No where did I feel charity. It was a moment within a moment of existence. Several someones got paid. That's fucking service!

And while we ate and drank and inhaled she said the lines dividing whatever defines life from fiction are smeared. I said that was because life is fiction and we exist within the whimsical nature of what is perception and expectation and perceived entitlement. How can that be anything but a recipe for the null and void... something to bring to a boil in a cauldron, stirred, and then poured down the drain? She said life is not a soap opera. I said how do you know?