Why can't we do it in the road?

Drugs are bad,
And abortion.
But killing people is sanctioned
By the state,
As long as they are bad.
We must have some outlet for aggressive behavior.
Kill the deer and the murderers.
There's too many of them both.
But naked hippies making love in the streets
Is illegal and wrong.
Why can't we do it in the road?

Thoughts don't work

Thoughts don't work
When tired.
Freezer feels nice
On hot night.
Radio
Not too loud.
Music not recognized,
But not bad.
Show called Mercury Falls.
Wall hanging ripples
From fan
On medium.
No knob so very hard
To change setting.
Words come in waves
Or bursts.
Machine guns shooting
Down low flying planes.
And eyes glazed
See nothing
But elephants with pink drivers
And gray riders with pink hats and gray roofs
Rippling.
Music very strange now.
Comes in waves of strange sounds.
Need acid for it to be good.
Need to feel these sounds.
Music
Too
Powerful.
Can't
Think
Anymore.

late night driving

There's a strange, crazed feeling that you get when you're driving late at night. When there's just you, the pavement, and the radio blaring old country tunes as loud as it gets. When the only other cars on the road are drug dealers, gangsters, and cops, livened up by the occasional dope fiend, ripped out of his skull on Wild Turkey and uppers, driving around the block like its the Sprint Cup. There's a weird serenity that comes from all of this. Maybe its some sort of hypnosis from the passing streetlights. And you can't forget the fog. Just thin wisps that give you the feeling that you're running down all the marchers in some freakish ghost parade.

narration of a rainy night

Its been a strange night. Hunter Thompson was slightly prophetic and the folks outside can't film because of the rain. He said in '86 that the Patriots wouldn't make the playoffs for another 20 years. Well they did, but it took 'em 15 years to win the Super Bowl. The rain's coming down pretty hard now. It was just drizzling when they set up. It's the fire pit in my back yard that attracted them. Like moths to a flame. Some of them look like witches, in black cloaks and deathly white makeup. But they can't shoot in the rain. The scene doesn't call for it. Damn fools made me turn off the music for nothing. I don't mind in particular, but I'm pissed about the soda situation. If I want more I'll have to walk to 7-11 in the rain. It's quiet now, without the music. Just the whirr of my aging window fan and the pitter patter of the rain outside. Every once in a while they shout something at each other. I can't make out the words.

Apparently they started again while I was getting another soda. But they've stopped now. The rain picked up while I was paying. This rain is really putting a damper on the filming. They're packing up. Before they were just waiting out the heavy bits and filming in between. It doesn't look like it'll let up any time soon. But now I can play the music. I've settled on the Flaming Lips pink robots album.

I just found out I have working Christmas lights on my front porch.

Home

As I sit here on my bed, I wonder: 'Is this home?' The creole and cajun music blaring from my stereo definitely helps give it a homey feel. Or at least a significant amount of down home feel. I haven't particularly had a permanent home in some time. I'd been staying at my parents house for the past four or five months, but that always had a temporary feel to me. Now I'm in this new apartment, but the walls seem very bare. Just two posters so far. There are several Indian bedspreads in a pile on the floor with an old South American blanket. All of them will go on the walls, but they're not there yet. Things are still strewn aimlessly around in most of the space, although the bed is in place.
The real question is, 'What makes a place home?' There's a book by somebody who I can't remember titled Home Is Where You Hang Your Spikes, but that's not really what I'm getting at. I've always considered the world to be my home. That theory is coming into question now. I have this feeling that where I am right now could be home; it's just missing something. Some element of dedication perhaps. Or maybe it's just lacking in decoration. I've always been very influenced by my surroundings. I need lots of activity and color: things that are pleasant to look at. I have a tendency to stare off at things, which is much more interesting when the subject of the stare is not just bare walls.

new apartment

It looks as though my writing on the blog will be coming in bursts for the next couple months. I no longer have a computer available all the time. This post is coming to you from my parents computer, at their house. I'm stilling writing things that would probably go well on the blog, but they are on the old fashioned, pre-internet blog: the note pad. So I guess every once in a while I'll post a whole bunch of entries. That's all I have to say for now. Other than saying that Hunter Thompson is a inspiration. Generation of Swine was fantastic. 'Buy the ticket. Take the ride.'

insight into the mind of a four-legged hippopotomus

how
am i alive
the colors are
just check the door and
the fan blows air but
speakers
do not speak
unless spoken to
in electricity

Out of body experiences

I have nothing to say. But I'm going to say it anyway. Brass buttons are things that are shiny and go on blazers not suits. Suits have other things that go on them. Like pinstripes, but they can go on the wall too. I heard about a guy who hand pinstriped all of the walls in his house. That sounds really tedious, but he probably enjoyed it. I can't think of any other reason to do that. Maybe he just needed some practice pin striping. I don't really know. I've been feeling sort of out of it today. Like sometimes I'm not really sure if I'm still existing in this world or not. Sometimes everything just starts to seem so distant. Like noises get quieter and everything gets dimmer and I can't feel things as well. I'm not really sure what it is, but I'm going to assume that
it means I'm beginning to transcend out of this plane of existence. That seems to be the only reasonable conclusion to me. I think that what I've been feeling is referred to by some as a spiritual moment, but it hasn't been very spiritual to me. Its just like yeah ok, so I left my body, big deal. Its not that great. It happens all the time. I don't see why people make such a big fuss about out of body experiences. They really aren't all that amazing. I've had quite a few in my short time in this body and none of them have really made me think 'Oh God! I have to believe in God now.' Its more just like 'Oh thats me, cool.' Once I saw myself running and it sort of scared me because I'm bad with angles and I was afraid I might trip going around the turn in the track since I had no more control over my actions and was just an observer. But really I don't see what the big deal is. Well I'm done ranting about that. Wow I wrote a lot more than I thought I had. My mind just sort of dazed off there and now there's a whole bunch of words. Not really sure what they're about. I wasn't paying any attention to my thoughts, I was just sort of writing about pinstripes then I was watching myself type, but there was only one time. That's not the best way to describe it but I don't really know how else to. I was sort of watching myself for just an instant, then all of the sudden there were all these words and I don't know where they came from. What the hell is going on?

Existence

When one has reached the edge
of human perception and
delved into the very existence
in which we live, it is possible to
see it all.

There is no more
you,
me,
or it,
the universe is
all as one and it flows through
the perceived me, as
you and I
transcend into the essence
of being.

All is finite,
yet into that finiteness one can see infinitely.

As we approach
the thing we seek it only
expands
to new minuteness that we had not
encountered before.

As the senses interact with
the surroundings the fibers and delicate filaments
that make up the universe are drawn
out into the open
so that we might perceive
the true nature
of that which is.

It is all as a donut,
no matter how far you perceive
in all directions
everything raps back on itself.

We can then realize that
all of the universe is
but one single dot that merely wraps
around itself creating the illusion of
vastness.


This is a rewrite of a short essay On the Nature of Existence that I posted in January, but that originally came from one of my emails from a year prior to that.