no idea what the fuck this is about

There I was. Nothing else. Just me. Blackness. Its strange how you can tell that you're moving even when none of your senses are working. It was some sort of falling and spinning combination. Maybe it was just vertigo. The emptiness slowly faded into blackness. I was definitely falling. I could feel the wind. No more spinning. Just the wind. There was no movement involved in this fall. I could tell. Just like when I could tell before. Then it hit me. Not a physical blow, but a realization. My eyes could work, but I had to make them work. I had no unconscious. Total awareness. Total control. Neuron fire. Nerve transmit. Muscle receive. Muscle act. Repeat. So much is required to just keep the head upright. But don't forget to make the heart pump. Senses sense. Brain coordinate. Too much. Too much. Just let it all stop. Will I still be without the physical things that make me? Oh. I failed. No more control. The unconscious was there. Just hiding. Waiting until it was sorely needed then stepping in when it would be appreciated most. No one is aware of how much it does. Never underestimate your subconscious.

get our shit together

The more I pay attention to the world around me, the more I wish I hadn't. I'm not talking about the natural world, that is wonderful. I mean the man made world: the world that we live in. Unless you're a hermit up in the mountains or out in the desert or somewhere else equally remote, the only natural world that you see is what little is allowed by the human world. Of course you could counter by saying that humans are natural and therefore the human world is natural, but again that's not what I'm getting at. I guess I should define my terms. By the natural world I mean the parts of the world that do not require human input to survive and in some cases are detrimented by human interference. I've pretty much forgotten what I originally set out to say, but what does that matter. Now I'm saying something different. Plans are by necessity meant to be adjusted as the situation changes. The world is like that. As humans were first becoming the dominant species on the planet it was necessary for us to physically conquer our environment. Unfortunately this mentality has carried over into our time. I think we've pretty much conquered nature, at least in the sense that we really don't need to keep beating it down. If this were boxing, I'm pretty sure we'd be damn near a knock out at this point. We need to adapt our fundamental way of living to our modern times. We are at a tipping point. For the first time in our history, and by first time I mean the last hundred or so years, humans are truly capable of physically destroying our world to the point where complex life is no longer possible. This is a terrifying fact that we truly need to acknowledge. WHAT THE FUCK PEOPLE? We need to get our fucking shit together and start acting like we give a damn about the well-being of life other than our own.

The Gonzo Papers

I just finished the whole series. It was a great read. It's taken me a while. I started The Great Shark Hunt: Strange Tales from a Strange Time over a year ago. My reading habits seem to have lapsed at some point after this. But I made up for the lapse by finishing the other three in about two weeks. It was almost by accident that I picked up Generation of Swine: Tales of Shame and Degradation in the '80s. I was desperate for something to read. Having just moved into my apartment, I was without TV or internet, my two standard pass-times. I took this lack of technology more as an opportunity to read more than any sort of hardship. After finishing volume two, my taste for the Doc's writing was piqued. I quickly moved on to Songs of the Doomed: More Notes on the Death of the American Dream, and finished with Better than Sex: Confessions of a Political Junkie. Looking back at my reading schedule, I realize that it somewhat mirrors Thompson's writing schedule, on a smaller scale of course. The Great Shark Hunt was published about 10 years before the next three were put out in what can only be called a flurry of publishing. Anyway, I highly recommend all of these books, especially if you read all of them together. There are a lot of themes that carry over from one volume to the next.

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