Waving at the Infinite
Monday, July 22, 2019
You know that Freud thing wherein you wanna kill your old man and get to banging on you mom? It goes back a ways, actually, to some pervy Greek. I forget his name.
I'm not really into dudes, so my dad is off the list of fuckables, and even though I don't really wanna kill my mother, I do kind of feel, a little bit, like if the lady was a corpse and the idiot was like, chained to a bed post for all eternity, my horse-shit life would become slightly more dog-shitty instead.
Just saying... drunkenly.
P. the ever-loving S. How the hell do you properly spell, "pervy"?
……………………..
Why in the name of God's self-righteous holy hell can I not find a bullet inside me capable of preventing me from drinking myself to death? Maybe I should place one there.
Friday, February 9, 2018
Sex / Solstice
It occurs to me that I can't quite keep a thought in my head, or an image in my mind. I reckon I'm either dead or dying. No big trophy.
I'm also ripping off Shawshank, but Shawshank ripped off It's King's short story so...
Whatever
As I look at the words written above this line I think, "I'm off my meds, aren't I?"
I should rather have titled this post not Sex / Solstice,... but The Elements of Style by, some stoner, who's barely conscious at the moment. You knew how stoned, you might be impressed he could spell the word, "conscious".
If you knew how stoned, you might be impressed by the fact that he could spell the word, "I"....
pretty sure that's not funny.
Pretty sure, that's not poetry....
.
.
.
Thursday, December 21, 2017
The Sex Was Totally Worth the Alcoholism
A long time ago, and once upon a time, I actually did have a lover. It was in New Orleans. I had been living there and working as a waiter for about nine months before we met. I was just shortly after our meeting promoted to bartender. The tips are better, and the hourly pay rate doubled. Then the hurricane came, and we moved in together. Then I came.
It was during the three trimesters leading up to our coupling, and the proceeding year of our year long engagement that my drinking went from excessive to problematic. All we did - for a year - was drink, fuck, smoke weed, fuck, drink, incur debt, drink, watch the same five movies over and over again, drink, fuck, fuck, fuck some more.... It was the most fun filled year of my entire life. It was non-stop.
That was the problem. I used the words, "most fun-filled" because I could not in good conscience have used the words, "best". It was hands down the absolute worst year of my life. And I was once molested by a person I had to pretend to be cool with almost every single day for over two years. That will fuck your head up. But that pair of years - that long pair of years - even collectively not as destructive as the one. But the pair was an utter pit of despair. At least the one was a whole lot of fun.
It did, however, nearly destroy me physically and psychologically... well, really mostly only physically. When you develops the level of physical dependence on alcohol as I managed to develop during my 21 months in NOLA, you will consider just riding it out until you die. Because the withdrawal is horrifying. More on that in a future post. At any rate, I'm still working out some years later, although I think I may be onto something.
In the past, since I decided to get control of my addiction...
I know, we're all told that we can't get control of an addiction. It's bullshit. Anyone can do it. It's a simple matter of understanding the nature of the thing, and then using that understanding to manipulate the addiction the was that it has been manipulating you. I don't know which is worse: that most civilians believe the line, or that most "addiction specialists" know it ain't so.
...I've taken the "trust your feelings on the matter. When you feel you're ready to try again, gear up, dry out, and start counting the days, weeks, or months (never went longer than four of them) and then, when you feel you'd like to try getting back into bed with the bottle, go ahead and do that.
That actually sounds really stupid when I write it out like that. Anyway, I'm trying a different approach... a commitment. That's all. In my case, considering my long history, I've decided to make a full year commitment. Not a drop of alcohol to pass these lips until the 19th of December 2018.
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
What to Discuss?
When in doubt, go meta. Write about the process of writing. Write about your process. Here's mine.
I have an idea I find either insightful or clever. Occasionally, something will strike that feels deeply emotional, but I do tend to avoid those currently, as my emotional state is fairly well shattered for the moment. Next I give the idea a title, map out the structure (I find it's most difficult and most enjoyable to map it out mentally, but I take no issue with breaking out my pen and sketching by hand if the concept is real complex). Then I sit down, stare at the screen for awhile, fingers poised, and, when I feel the moment, dive in head-first and head-long and I don't stop until the flow itself stops. Rinse and repeat until I reach the conclusion. Stop. Take a moment to breath, to detach and withdraw. Give the whole thing a cursory scan, then finally compose the conclusion. Simple, no?
I attended a cousin's wedding last weekend and got jackknifed on tequila and Irish whiskey. I let slip to the man who is my best friend that I was writing this here blog. He asked me what I had to blog about. I replied, of course, that I have nothing to blog about, as anyone who reads this will be able to attest. Since that night, though... no ideas. I have at least four during a slow week. It's not that I mistook his meaning. I got the joke. It was funny. That doesn't seem to matter, however. I think that it's true what comedy points out about that old "adage" or whatever it is about how everyone has an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other... that people actually only have two devils, and they use a couple of different tricks to cause you to slip. (Simpson's, Family Guy, South Park... they've all done versions of this joke. The film, Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back has probably my favorite) One devil whispers that you shouldn't do. The other devil says that you can't. It's the second one that's responsible for writer's block. If you"re suffering from it, I recommend indulging in your favorite vice, whether that's sex, drugs, or prayer, and reminding yourself -- after you've finished the indulgence -- that what you write needs to be neither good nor meaningful. There are a lot of reasons and then so many more for putting down the pen. Fear is not one of them.
So, this may seem a little disjointed, but a paragraph should be composed of no fewer than two sentences to technically qualify as a paragraph. I'll just say that the voices in your head can be a lot of fun to hang out with, but they're not your friends... you have no friends.
Ha!
Monday, November 6, 2017
120 Years
It seems I'm all caught up with myself. It only seems, but it's a start.
I had kind of a fun idea more than two decades back about the natural human life span. I calculated, based on rates I had observed of growth and decay of both muscle and maturity over roughly twenty years, that it would be, on average, 120 years.
Now, this life span, which would account not only for the mean lifespan of everyone on earth, but also for the median and the mode, could only be experienced in a harmonious version of humanity, in the absence of any counteractive forces which currently seem to exist in the world. Forces like Fear, and everything derived from it. There would be outliers, of course, this would still be a natural world, physical; a world composed in equal parts creative and destructive influences. Otherwise, why bother with mortality at all. In a static and sterile reality one does not live and die. One chooses either to exist or to not. But I'm getting of track. What I had derived all those years ago, still very much a child, was that almost every person on the planet would live between 114 and 128 years. To be exact, it would be 3SD on the normal Bell, or approximately ninety-eight percent.
What's neat is that the lifespan would naturally separate into four seasons: Youth, Middle-age, Old-age, and Elder. Each would consist of 30 years, give or take, mostly based on personality and temperament, but also to a lesser degree on circumstance. These phases of mortality would be just as they are here in our experienced world, only that their durations and passings away, wouldn't be unknown and guessed at. They would be, more or less, predictable.
Thirty years of cool, thirty of hot, 30 of crisp, and one last measure of cold. Neat. I extended my Youth by roughly ten years, so I'll have to even out down the road and shorten a set. I wonder which one I'll choose. Which one would you choose?
Sunday, November 5, 2017
I think I'll have a Drink
Number Three
I didn't write an essay last week because I was drunk. Not the entire week. From about the middle of last week, until about the middle of this one. (Have I mentioned the alcoholism). It does make for a convenient and easily composed intro, though, doesn't it?
As long as the alcoholism is already in there, I suppose I might as well use it as subject matter. Whenever I relapse, it causes a setback in my forward progress through life. This, in turn causes me to feel a sense of loss (of time), which I must then spend an additional measure of time to accept the loss and move on; to get back to figuring out how to most effectively enjoy my life. The question is, is it worth it? The answer is, not really. Or, if you like, kind of... sometimes.
If I decide to celebrate or, in the same vein, wallow in misery for an evening and a night. I'm not talking about drinking to excess, I'm talking about annihilation. I, eventually, wake up hungover the edge of the abyss. I power through this God-awful morning and day and evening after. Maybe I even get something done. I don't lose sleep over that. Were I to spend a lifetime drinking mild to moderately, with only occasional nights of excess followed by mornings of mild to moderate hangovers... in that case, I wouldn't lose sleep. What I do is obliterate my body and mind for nearly a week, spend three days in the condition of cancer patient undergoing chemo, and then another three days mourning the loss of the previous nine. And here's the kicker. Once it's over, I don't feel bad about it having happened. Not because it's in the past and needn't be dwelt upon, though that is true, but rather, I don't feel that bad about it because it's a vast improvement compared to a couple of years ago.
I've got a long way to go, sure. But I have come so very far. And I haven't stopped. I'm genuinely proud of that.
I think I'll have a drink!
I didn't write an essay last week because I was drunk. Not the entire week. From about the middle of last week, until about the middle of this one. (Have I mentioned the alcoholism). It does make for a convenient and easily composed intro, though, doesn't it?
As long as the alcoholism is already in there, I suppose I might as well use it as subject matter. Whenever I relapse, it causes a setback in my forward progress through life. This, in turn causes me to feel a sense of loss (of time), which I must then spend an additional measure of time to accept the loss and move on; to get back to figuring out how to most effectively enjoy my life. The question is, is it worth it? The answer is, not really. Or, if you like, kind of... sometimes.
If I decide to celebrate or, in the same vein, wallow in misery for an evening and a night. I'm not talking about drinking to excess, I'm talking about annihilation. I, eventually, wake up hungover the edge of the abyss. I power through this God-awful morning and day and evening after. Maybe I even get something done. I don't lose sleep over that. Were I to spend a lifetime drinking mild to moderately, with only occasional nights of excess followed by mornings of mild to moderate hangovers... in that case, I wouldn't lose sleep. What I do is obliterate my body and mind for nearly a week, spend three days in the condition of cancer patient undergoing chemo, and then another three days mourning the loss of the previous nine. And here's the kicker. Once it's over, I don't feel bad about it having happened. Not because it's in the past and needn't be dwelt upon, though that is true, but rather, I don't feel that bad about it because it's a vast improvement compared to a couple of years ago.
I've got a long way to go, sure. But I have come so very far. And I haven't stopped. I'm genuinely proud of that.
I think I'll have a drink!
Wednesday, October 25, 2017
October 25, 2017
First deadline flouted. My philosophy professors would be disappointed. Actually, so am I... a bit. I suppose things are different when you accept yourself as a graduate, and no longer a student. At any rate, what's done is done, and I am big enough to forgive myself. Moving on....
Recently I awoke in the dark from a dream which I found so fascinating, that I started talking to myself aloud about it (though in whispers). My memory of the dream faded quickly as it most often does, but the conversation continued for some time. It came to be about the nature of opinion, and the difference between what a person thinks is true, and what a person believes to be true.
No religion in this essay/poetic-prose experiment. I'm not talking about Faith or flying-leaps. Here's how it played out:
"What do you think? This planet, is flat, or is it round? Or is it both, or rather, either flat or round depending on you perspective - whether your perspective, I mean, is terrestrial or orbital?"
"Well, I guess you're not counting mountains and valleys as making the earth other than flat, I like to think of it as being a matter of perspective. After all, one could follow the equator all the was around the planet without ever leaving the surface. Such a person would need little more than a rugged vehicle, a large vessel, the requisite quantity of fuel for the jeep, the barge, and his own body. It would be one hell of an undertaking, but I imagine not so much so as flying over it in a rocket ship."
"That's your answer?"
"No, actually I think this planet is spherical in body. A great big blue spaceship."
"And you think you're right in this? That your opinion on this matter is correct?"
"I do."
And right then, right in that moment, right at that spot. That was the place something became so very clear to me. I think that the earth is a sphere, yes. I am aware that I could very well be mistaken. I won't get into how or why, but I will mention that it has nothing to do with conspiracy theories or any such thing, just a rudimentary knowledge of some high-grade physics and non-academic metaphysics. The point is that I do, in fact, think that the world is round, but as to the value of that opinion, I don't think I'm right. I know I am. In other words it is my opinion that "whatever", but even though I know that I could be wrong, I absolutely belief that I'm right. I don't believe that I'm not wrong, mind you. I know that I could be; it would be crazy to believe that I'm not. But believing that I'm right is not the same as believing that I'm not wrong. And so I do....
And I can't help it. There's absolutely nothing I can do about it. Even recognizing it and acknowledging it does nothing to prevent it. I only hope that maybe possessing this understanding and self-awareness can help me get back a little humility without self-loathing.
Ah, hope!
First deadline flouted. My philosophy professors would be disappointed. Actually, so am I... a bit. I suppose things are different when you accept yourself as a graduate, and no longer a student. At any rate, what's done is done, and I am big enough to forgive myself. Moving on....
Recently I awoke in the dark from a dream which I found so fascinating, that I started talking to myself aloud about it (though in whispers). My memory of the dream faded quickly as it most often does, but the conversation continued for some time. It came to be about the nature of opinion, and the difference between what a person thinks is true, and what a person believes to be true.
No religion in this essay/poetic-prose experiment. I'm not talking about Faith or flying-leaps. Here's how it played out:
"What do you think? This planet, is flat, or is it round? Or is it both, or rather, either flat or round depending on you perspective - whether your perspective, I mean, is terrestrial or orbital?"
"Well, I guess you're not counting mountains and valleys as making the earth other than flat, I like to think of it as being a matter of perspective. After all, one could follow the equator all the was around the planet without ever leaving the surface. Such a person would need little more than a rugged vehicle, a large vessel, the requisite quantity of fuel for the jeep, the barge, and his own body. It would be one hell of an undertaking, but I imagine not so much so as flying over it in a rocket ship."
"That's your answer?"
"No, actually I think this planet is spherical in body. A great big blue spaceship."
"And you think you're right in this? That your opinion on this matter is correct?"
"I do."
And right then, right in that moment, right at that spot. That was the place something became so very clear to me. I think that the earth is a sphere, yes. I am aware that I could very well be mistaken. I won't get into how or why, but I will mention that it has nothing to do with conspiracy theories or any such thing, just a rudimentary knowledge of some high-grade physics and non-academic metaphysics. The point is that I do, in fact, think that the world is round, but as to the value of that opinion, I don't think I'm right. I know I am. In other words it is my opinion that "whatever", but even though I know that I could be wrong, I absolutely belief that I'm right. I don't believe that I'm not wrong, mind you. I know that I could be; it would be crazy to believe that I'm not. But believing that I'm right is not the same as believing that I'm not wrong. And so I do....
And I can't help it. There's absolutely nothing I can do about it. Even recognizing it and acknowledging it does nothing to prevent it. I only hope that maybe possessing this understanding and self-awareness can help me get back a little humility without self-loathing.
Ah, hope!
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