Sometimes,
When I can't bear the weight of my own thoughts I return to the classics. No, not Heminway or Fitzgerald; no Flaubert or Maupassant for these tired times. I mean the classics of pubescent, adle-brained, fourteen bean genes growing staulks out of tres pesos and un pocito lolita meat grinder machines.
Bukowski and Brautigan and even sir Jack, that rat-bastard, immature adult-child bleeding his dharma guts out into mama mia's toilet bowl, while young fool-philosophers sped their way his way to find some inner peace and instead received a fuck off and go to hell from some fat, bloated drunk who couldn't take it any more and just wanted death and drink and got both. Howl for him all you want to; he's dead and immortal now.
No, I come back to Brautigan these days and listen as he mocks reality with such reverence, turning even the mundane into mundane sublimity. Is it sad to think he wasted away like they all do? Like we will? Have we got the right stuff to shoot ourselves to the moon and come back down again? Will we ever find the eternal, golden bliss of a single moment? Who knows. Who cares? We all make it by hook or by crook down the pipes.
In the mean time, as the mean season grows stiff and the sun returns from sunnier climes, listen to these recordings of another immortal, dead to this earthly plane, but flying high anyways.
Wine and wishes.
13 February 2006
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1 comment:
wine & wishes back, but not so much wishes because I'd rather build something tangible, or at least sturdy... and not so much wine because, in the end, I'd rather dunk my face in a nice river somewhere and drink the clean, crisp water of fables, and share it with you.. So, I take it back... Wine & wishes recieved, but friendship given & thirst quenched instead.
amy (of the not-so-perfect punctuation.)
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