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I finally stirred, with intent, about ten AM. The lights had gone out, four hours earlier... as the chorus of birds arose, and day returned. Sour taste in the mouth, and the soul. Wasted money. Wasted brain. Wasted energies. Because... of course... I got wasted. Repetitive scenario: Left by myself, I will do my damnedest to escape into a racing, raging stupor. Message to self: knock it the fuck off. Saturday was alright, and all wrong. Early trip to the studio to co-host the Pogues/Waterboys show was fun. Satisfying, the breakfast of sashimi after. Ambiguous, the stroll through my former art school. Familiar signatures on canvases and prints, in grand scale... screaming out in a S1mpson's/Francis Bacon way. Feeling trivial, or maybe just out-of-touch with oils and linseed. Knowing that I must come back with different eyes. It was downhill, from there. Waiting For My Man, and the delivery. Grabbing a six of XX. Shutting off the rest of the world. Peeking into the abyss. I should have paid for the honor by feeling like shit. The mind and legs were wobbly, maybe... but undeservedly none the worse for wear-and-tear. I cursed myself, my weakness... and made myself sweat with tools as penance. My wife returned sometime after two... not the woman I married. As if nothing had happened. As if. The camera saw things, today. Nature lustily putting on a pornographic display. Mocking.
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