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I awoke, imprisoned in sheets resembling the aftermath of a tornado in a trailer park... a twister of linen. Absent, the splintered shards of dreams. No recollection, whatsoever, of what could have triggered the tempest... my mind wiped clean of unconscious memory... a tabula rasa. Rising, earlier... a habit I've recently been cultivating, hadn't changed the forged-in-the-DNA response to the morning hours: the halting, straight-as-a-fly's-path of a shuffle to the coffeemaker. Automatically assembling liquid inspiration. Before the first taste, I slid the doors open to the balcony, and the rest of the world. Mission: phone call on the cellie, to get co-ordinated with Slick Willie on the festivities on the Mall. Expecting little more than the shifting of leaves as background noise, i walked in to a wall of sound. Unseen battalions of mowers, weaving a cacophonous aural tapestry... warped and wefted with international flights accelerating into the stratosphere, mobile vacuums policing the car park, windows being destroyed and replaced across the green wall on the opposite apartments, Spanish and Arabic and unintelligible ululations, distant traffic. God, the birds don't have a chance, here. It would have been more tranquil in a bus station. An apt metaphor for the turns that life is taking, at this point. White noise. Excessive constant negative input. Reading Irvine We1sh isn't helping one bit, either... addictive as it is. The flavor... as if there is nothing in this plane of existence that is not debauched, drugged, sinister, ordained, futile or violent. Hearkens back to an interpretation of the Nick H0rnby observation... do the books i read make me depressed, or do i read the ones i do because i'm that way, already? Yeah, I know Paulie... "So shut the fuck up about it." This is a piss poor attitude to carry me on a day of supposed freedom. Jumping the track. Breaking the chain. Seeing through different eyes. Unwriting the written. Instead, familiar old demons becon. The motherfuckers. The past few weeks have been a tormented slog in the sewer, where there is no light. Maybe even longer than that. This trip to the charnel house needs a detour... or it'll be an expressway, sure enough. Will it be a dream, or a dud? Maybe the next round of nocturnal id/ego/superego emissions will be more apparent. I'd rather have the sheets twisted for more pleasant reasons. |
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