lakes

I forget things a lot because I’m stupid.  I watched an incredibly nourishing film last night.  During the course of this I drank cheap whiskey, bourbon (Kentucky mash is the secret to health) and some very cheap Pinot Grigio.  I have three bottles of the stuff.  I believe I purchased them from a gas station.  It was a portrait of a lady on fire. Quietly devastating.  I recall crying last night.  I’m in a grey state right now.  I have been neglecting the construct inside myself.  The dream.  I need to return to the costume ball.  There must be something else, a new construct. I need to work more diligently on exterminating my personality.  I need to annihilate and create something different.  In its place something better.  I need to omit myself (as a favor for…).  I’m seeing red brush strokes atop scenic mountains.  Tears are welling up in my eyes right now, I feel a sadness induced constriction in my throat.  I close my eyes and take deep breaths and try to imagine I am somewhere else and then I realize the problem is not the location.  The problem is me.  No matter where I am I will always be me and this is the foulest of realizations; the most punishing of condemnations.  But you must accept this or make the only logical choice.  This would necessitate the utter destruction of an entire world but the world is corrupt and ugly and useless and so this destruction would not be tragic at all but in fact quite celebratory.  I picture my head exploding quite viscerally with chunks of flesh and bone splattering the walls of my posh flat.  I feel oddly depressed.  But somewhat relieved.  I have on occasion imagined myself as dead and it is a most interesting feeling.  Occasionally comforting in a way no one ever was.  I realize I’ve never felt comforted.  It is an utterly alien feeling.  But I don’t miss it.  Can’t miss something never felt.   

I’m listening to Shania Twain about an hour ago. 

There were 9 unknown men and 9 secret books of knowledge.  A few volumes were only given 1 sentence explanations.  I need to learn more.  And of course there is Pope Sylvester II and his bronze head.  Ah, the bronze head, providing such clarity in the midst of such strife.  I need to learn more.  Secret pacts.  We can only learn so much and live.  That last sentence is not my words but they are words which always stuck with me.  I wish at some point to be dancing the tango and not feeling like myself at all.  I can feel the strain in my neck now.  In my neck and up to my chin and down to my collar bone and sometimes all the way to my wrists and hands and in those moments my hands cease to work entirely and there is sometimes just the hint of elation as it seems possible to be anyone else. 

I need to reread those old Denny O’Neil and Neal Adams Green Lantern/Green Arrow trade paperbacks.  Those comics are so great and they still hold up.  What a team!  And what a team!  I love the way Adams draws Black Canary.  I love the way he draws anyone really.  And Denny was always so reliable, the work groundbreaking yet classically heroic in the best sense.  I don’t know anything.  I know where those trades are though.  I’m already pulling them off the shelf 9 hours from now and thumbing through them.  My ward is a junkie.  Oh, the thing I love about those specific reprints is that didn’t mess with the damned color!  I hate when they modernize the coloring techniques on classic comics!  It makes me so mad that my testicles nearly explode right out of the nutsack! 

I’m gonna pop antacids just for fun later in the day!  Then I’m going to read from old books of lost hidden knowledge.  I ate fried fucking chicken for breakfast.  Or did I?  the more I learn the less I want to know. I think I’ll eat a pizza pocket for lunch and wish I were somewhere else.  I wish I had future…anywhere.  I’m going to start watching the series The Good Witch because I need more wholesome things in my metaphorical TV/move/book/music diet.  Even if I detest it I’m committed to watching all 7 feature films and all 6 seasons.  Then maybe I’ll watch JAG.  I’m hoping this’ll take me back to my glorious to metaphorically devouring the show Ghost Whisperer.  Season 4 is still one of the most perfect seasons of television of all time!  Those were also the years where I was madly in love with Jennifer Love Hewitt.  In those halcyon days of yore my imagination could still save me from myself.  The constructs were easier, the dreams more fluid.  But the dreams seem over now. 

I’ve still been listening to that Trans album.  I’m a still a failure (chuckles to self).  Could From Hell be my favorite Alan Moore work of all time?  I haven’t read all his shit so I can’t say for certain but it continues to a be rich and rewarding work. 

I hope to watch that thing I mentioned earlier again and shed tears again.  I need art to bring the tears out of me.  Nothing else makes me feel anything except bad.  But I can’t cry over that bad stuff.  It’s all so awful and pointless.  Myself too of course, I’m certainly not exempt.  I’m the one who’s doing it.  Maybe I’m listening to Tamia on the drive home. 

Oh, the four stages of cruelty.  Why was I not so well acquainted before?  I was reading about the book of Ephesians yesterday.  And I think today too.  Fascinating to delve deep into time, place and authorship.  Its also a very nice little book.  Great starting point. 

I deserve the hatred I receive.  I remember feeling a tingle go through my whole body when she said I can go to hell. 

My muses slip through my fingers so easily these days. Hard to find any lasting inspiration or real meaning behind anything. 

I love signing documents.  I love being asleep.