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I recall the routine of a satiric southern evangelist: "Friends, do ya feel so low they'd have to lift you up to bury you?" I hope it never gets to that level. There are shadows, in abundance, but there is always this belief that keeps me from expiring: that nothing remains the same. The natural state of things is chaos... only through force of will is there any semblance of order. It also feels as if chaotic events swing from bad to acceptable to euphoric. The quickest, when emotions run wild... agonizingly slow when despair siphons away momentum like walking through thick, dry sand. There must be something about us humans that makes it so easy to recall painful experiences, but who can remember what an orgasm feels like? Better Living Through Chemistry? I doubt it. Cases in point: Every time I attempted to put food in my mouth, all day long, the phone would ring. I was feeling like Pavl0v's D0g... lift a fork, and "ding," a bell would ring. At least, no shocks. But there be rogues on the other side of the line... all of my shady acquaintances making contact on the same day. The Ugly American: who used to be referred to as "Slick Willie" (all of his trips abroad must put interesting ideas into the heads of foreign nationals). Hot on the trail of information about the British APC he bought... tracing it's commission to the "Tr0ubles" in N0rthern 1reland. Biggles: Trying to lure me into another night of beer and funk music. The L1zard K1ng: who escaped to the south... giving truth to the rumor that "all the nuts roll downhill to Florida." A phone conversation with this unstable, yet lucid companion is like tuning the radio to random stations... only for a few seconds. All of them, compelled to call, today. I smell chaos afoot. |
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