Did it again today, and it seemed to have been successful. So, perhaps my earlier attempt worked and it sensed the duplicate. Life? Ate the cereal, played the gameprefer the cereal. But the untrademarked life...
I'll tell you when it's over...
The crazy binges, late night screams, titty bars, misguided yutes, obscene bar tabs, missed moments, all the young crudesthey were fun and they still can be. But it's not the substance of life. It can't happen every night. Coughing up phlegm and stomach acid into the toilet every morning just isn't the best way to start a day. For some people, perhaps living in a fog is better than facing a reality that has nothing to offer them and which they have nothing to offer. I would like to feel that we can produce happiness, satisfaction, excitement, or whatever emotion or intellectual charge without any other thing or any other person. Of course, that would be life in a vacuum, and it wouldn't be ideal either. I still want to be out there among others (just not all the timeeven Steve Taylor needs down time, as I'm appreciating right now), I still want to have my drinks, and I'm sure there will be more than a few crazy evenings out there. But back to the way they used to beadventures, not escapes. Balancenot in the sense of moderation in all things, but in the sense of what combination of elements, external and internal, work for me. If the only answer I could find would be drinking cheap beer in a dive reeking of cheap cigarettes or pulling on a Martini in a luxury hotel bar inundated with an expensive haze of cigars, thendamnitI'd find a way to spend as much time as possible doing that. However, while some fascinating hours have been spent in places like that, my experience has been much broader and has given me playing, reading, writing, exploring, watching, listening, dreaming, working (with hands, mind, etc.), creating, learning...and I haven't been doing enough of these over the last x number of years. Vive la balance, or something ...
Ha! ha! Don't get me wrong. I lust the warm soft tenacity and specatacle of women with every fiber in my body like any red bloodied rot gut, but those same fragmented overfed fibers are smartening up enough to know where they have a better chance to succeed, and it ain't in some damned cut-up chase scene with Bracken sounding the charge.
That Jim Carroll biographer chick, Cassie Carter, has been after me again, but that's good because unless Amazon is scamming me on their weekly reports which actually list some 150 hits by book title referrer, nearly all these visitors are coming directly to my site, or rather, directly to my Jim Carroll page, from hers. Meanwhile, FTP'd the whole ex-iMote over to the new scenewash directory yesterday, and will need a few days of restoking to clear the links of debris and don't ask me what else. So it's back to work for the weary. Finally a rain day. The first in over a month here in DC.
I associate these feelings with Lofton Creek FL, the chicken farm days, the cabin, forty thousand birds, long lonely weeks without ever seeing another human, my daily summer skinnydipping, vegetarianism, cheese and grapes and rye bread lovers, writing my first serious, better poems of a lifetime, poems I still read with enthusiam today (aching to plug online), those ten mile hikes into town, Dylan Dog who looked and acted just like Nickel Dog, getting buried in three hundred year old literature checked from the library, Will Durant, and a steady feed from PBS. I was 24-25. Young, thin, even skinny. Full of zest, vigor, and peace. Life is not a home-brew. Life is what happens to you when you are busy making plans for something else. I stole that from Lennon before, but that's the fat and the gristle of it. Nothing's any more clear than that. Now the chicken farm is gone. My mentor (of hard work) has been dead for ten years, and the farm I helped build torn down. Life? Yeah Bob, lemme sit at your feet, such wisdom.
Have you heard the recent uproar about the thousands of fish sporting nasty abcesses on their smelly bods first in North Carolina, and now proin the Chesapeake? After nearly a year of mystery, the problems are being blamed on chicken farm runoff, shit tragically high in nitrogen and ammonia gases running off into the streams and creeks and into the ocean. That's some powerful stuff that survives the plunge into the sea.
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