sadness comes when you start to miss memories that aren't yours
��������� �����lucky you, lucky you.another glance in the way of this journal, eyes half open and blinking confused like a drunk college girl meandering her way down a citystreet.
i could be transplanted from this location in a whitewashed room with cigarettes smouldering in a nearby ashtray smouldering like indifferent cats curling up on the bedspread behind me. the writer's casual indifferent composure with the common face-cracking smile, head tilted down and finally laid to rest with a few bangs against the desk, laughing silently yet hysterically. a girl in a black t-shirt and jeans and red hair behind me on the bed. taking the place of the cat. we are high.
and the city revolves around us. and headlights are time-lapse around us like streamers. and mike doughty is the pulse, the credo of the city's heart, a voice that is so ragged and stilling like the voice after a few too many tequilas. which is the drink of choice, of course. stacks of badly-balanced quarters and a joint passed between fingers slowly, a fumble with skin brushing against skin, the pronounced ridges of fingerprint meeting the other - a choice encounter like a lonely man in a pinstripe shirt and jeans at a bar, smoking and pushing a beer back and forth between his hands and the blonde woman who sits next to him - in the next hour they will have 1)madecasualeyecontact2)laughquietlyabouttheirshortcomings3)madetheirwaytohishotelroom4)takenofftheirshirtsandlickedoneanother'schestsand5)madelove)
loverboy, she'll call him, he'll get mildly disgusted at the clingy way she makes love and how her hands are always trailing down his shoulders, and he won't be calling her again. maybe she has pink streaks in her short hairdo. and fishnets. and black boots.
sometimes i think i was born to be a hedonist but got fucked up along the way. an 'emotional vampire'. of the blank stare & the roving hands. telling anthony how funny it will be tonight when marijuana is legalised.
walmart-brand marijuana. "equate," he says, and i crack up. "equate cannabis," i say, "buy one get one free," in the little white box with "side effects" listed on it. commercials. "smoke up with a buddy tonight." can you imagine. i mean, really.
rolling back and forth in bed like deranged waves on the shore, achieving a writer's psychosis. letting words from lawrence durrell's character Pursewarden drive me. he was at that time deeply immersed in the novel he was writing, and as always he found that his ordinary life, in a distorted sort of way, was beginning to follow the curvature of his book. he explained this by saying that any concentration of the will displaces life (Archimedes' bath-water) and gives it bias.
reality, he believed, was always trying to copy the imagination of man, from which it derived.
i am beginning to think that one of the greatest tragedies of life is that we are always either looking towards the conclusion of it, or searching for the beginning of it. how we seek to divide our time, ticking off millenia, centuries, decades, years, months, weeks, hours, minutes, seconds. like zeno's arrow, however many times you divide the time between the arrow's point and its intended target, the arrow never reaches it.
that so much time is fretted away like shavings from whittling, that we have no impetus to examine the present moment because - whoops, there it goes. so everything is history. so we are forced to look at the future rather than the past since there simply does not exist a present. only in metaphorical terms. the present, like zeno's arrow, is the space between the arrow's point of the past and the target of the future.
and i shock myself with the realisation, and remember that the future is only a moment past an infinite space. my eyes are burning and i'm not smoking. i sometimes think i'd like to take it up, but i can't stand the smell of it. my hands also smell like gasoline, from a trip to the gas-station and the consequence of refilling my car up with a purchased gas-can.
fluorescent lights are somewhat less harsh at night. anthony & i saw mars (or mercury) in the western (or eastern, southern, northern) sky before it got obscured by smoggy-looking clouds.
crushing, really. berries between fingers. i hope someday to find a girl in a white tshirt and jeans who enjoys the feeling of raspberries more on her lips than inside her mouth. i don't much care for raspberries.
a fragmentary saturday is over. sunday proceeds. i do hate sundays.