Fuck. My chest is tight, my throat is pulsating, my eyes are glass, my mind is still reverberating from the wave of calm that hit me earlier, the type that makes you yearn again, the shit gets tougher as the time passes, withdrawal is deep and the mind matters less as every moment passes, and the things we seek, seem to fill glasses as if on automatic pilot, my mind is gone, my sight is blurry, my scent is funky, I’d pay you to do something funny, tell me what it takes to make a smile, a million dollars or a spoonful of sugar, call a diabetic right, call me a medic, ait.
Fuck.
So I have another bout of insomnia, despite the precautions that I took. I will not elaborate. Fried chicken, at KFC, that’d bring back some memories. Similarly, some posts on websites I haven’t visited in a while would bring back some memories.
If I had the time, money, patience and opportunity, I would take that trip to liberal arts land and write you a treatise on memory. Mnemosyne, the queen. Simonides and his feats. The banquet chamber and the seats. The well-ordered classical mind. All refer to artifices in the art of memory. A branch of rhetoric as you might recall. Or you might not. For memory is of things experienced, and yet it is fabricated of things that need not have occurred. It is by no means that fabled sense experience of philosophy, though it may be “it’s” product, memory is something far more plastic and malleable. It is the very meaning of who we are, there to be marveled at and known, though not according to any satisfactory norm. We know it anyway, and more clearly than anything else in our minds. In a flash of our mind’s eye we can see a forest. A god damn universe in immeasurable time. Animals are probably endowed with similar capacity, one could even postulate that their entire thought process runs along those lines. BUT MAN, right.
So memories of times past have gotten me to write this. The opportunity was insomnia of course. The times are not so long ago chronologically speaking. In the same time Stalin would have relocated and expunged enough people to finish a project, and in the same time I would have finished high school, dropped out of college multiple times, joined/quit a cult, worked various measly jobs, attempted to intellectualize solo, street-lived for months, worked some more bs work and finally left the country altogether to start a new life. So reading these posts from times past got me thinking about the changes, and not so much thinking as feeling. Feeling bittersweet emotions, the bitterness should be obvious and unjustified, the sweet, odd and well, sweet.
I will reflect no further. I am a mirror in need of polishing.
I apologize for the following, its pure shit.
–1158
Alligator, alligator, picks a slot and eats the blotter paper. Soon to be in neverland, Peter Pan, hand in hand, singing songs in chants and prance. Sing along and do demand, to make headlines on demand.
In the end there is no honor, single people, single bother, why do i speak words of wisdom, absurdity it makes no difference, why to shake and when to bother, tell me mother who is my father?
In this enchanted land, Alligator has hatched a plan, the shell has cracked upon the pavement, blueprint bleeds blue blood, what a delicious caper, unforunately the ink is gone, down the sewer, into the pond. Alligator follows through, with his eyes after me and you. Down the drain and out the toilet, Alligator is there to spoil it. Please explain to me the plan, speaks Alligator to the the old old man. Oldie takes out the paper, points and explains the foiled caper. Alligator acts as if in shock, then he pulls out his big ol –ock. Speak of the devil, thinks the old man, points HIS pistol and shoots the gland, prostate if I must be frank, alligator squirms and swims back into the tank. Bleeding in the diseased water, he starts to feel the end of the blotter. The drip drop of the faucet is powerful, the sights are clear, the mind still our cure for years. For the time to come, decades had to pass, the time came without the turn of an hourglass. Alligator, now Ali Slater, sits in his bathtub waiting.
Can you explain these stange visions, sir?, asks the boy his learned clerk.
Yes, I can, but I still have some work.
Please, indulge me, just this one time. I’ll pay you twice your normal dime.
Why thank you, master, I will oblige, for my sire, it is quite alright. What you saw was but a dream, a fanciful thing of bizarre proportions, the sky’s the limit to the distortions.
But i thought it was toilet paper.
Rectal administration, its best ingestion method…
1214–
Again, apologies accepted.
