Une Saison en Enfer?

My belief in hell is a shaky one, given that it's so scary that it's hardly ever possible to imagine anyone remotely compassionate having to dream one up.

Unlike Rimbaud, I wasn't sodomized in the ass. I don't suffer from the same wounds he does, nor is my life governed by different poles of delirium or despair. I'd like to believe though, or at least that some things are the same. Like the terror of dying is the same whether or not you dream it or not. And the eighteenth level of hell was never scary because it was so fake.

I say this because at some point in time (JC) or so, I began losing this notion of individuality that I held to for most of my secondary school life, which seemed then like a method of survival. I was horribly inferior to most other classmates in different ways, so I just had to feel that well, I guess I felt more than them and was just horribly distracted and would eventually come good.

As I grew, I realised people are driven by very much the same needs and desires. To a certain extent, people feel the same way. Sort of realised this when I realised succesful people were more or less equally distracted by the same things and display the same vulnerabilities such as anger or rage or anything its just that they have this annoying way of timing them so that everything comes good.

That's not to say everyone's the same. I now believe other people, in fact, seem to be capable of feeling so much more (uh-huh), and I'm a cold rational person by the side of them, who happens to have some artistic sensitivity.

I Miss

Past is Prologue -Shakespeare?

In the beginning there was the Word.
The Word was made Flesh.
And Flesh brought desire.

Desire.

One of my strongest feelings... but why is it always associated with the present, and wanting things now? Desire can wait, and it can snake its way to the past and present itself to your subconcious in the most insidious of ways.

Life of 852 and of Tierney's Gourmet, where the very route spoke of the past. Past RI, Past Mt Alvernia's, past Serene Center when my friend asked me if I knew that I could get the best Portuguese canned sardines and Tierney's for 2 dollars a pop. Medicated oil, feng you smell.


I miss the little transactions of friendship. Cycling to Adam Road Hospital to interview a psychiatrist. Pretending to look at cans on a shelf. Waiting for someone at Macs.

Transactions nowadays are more complicated. Because things are worth more, they cost more. And you know, I really could do without the frills. Like fucking someone from the rear, or something like that. I don't need that. (sure you don't.) No, I'm a sexual creature, the same, but its traumatic, when the cost of that is to preen and act like you've the biggest dick around, mainly because it's the size of your head, be alternately sweet and yet be able to mark out your territory by peeing around it in a circle. Like I know, it's essential for evolution, that's why it sounds horrible in words, but I guess in reality actions are the evidence of impulses. cause and effect. and that's how you know.

i'd be fine with happiness, but who knows, I might bring in a squad of hitmen to kill you all because it would be good for you. Gosh why was Uma Thurman just rolling about on the floor crying "Thank you, thank you." It was to thank Bill for being the biggest bastard he could have been. It's what she deserves.

I'm no less eccentric or emotional. I don't really commit many social faux pas. I don't know what best friend means, cause I couldn't rank it if I tried. Maybe my best friend is someone who's a bastard for the best part of my life but who comes for me when it really counts. Can you count like that?

In sepia, pan to the sea.

Fishing, and the sea, and why it attracts old men.

I'm amazed by the wonder of nothingness. That so much nothing can exist. Granted, when you fish, you see the concomitant distractions, sailors and sailoresses from VJC, gigantic oil tankers. There's the sea, and my lousy fishing skills. I'm in charge of catching small ones for bait to catch big ones.

It's fantasy. The sunlight, "ai mai ai mai", want to shine don't want to shine. Cannot have a tan. You can indulge in your own fantasy. The thing in front of you could be a scene from your trip to Siberia next year, smoking into the nothingness in the biting cold.

Plenty of time to think and dwell, but your mind can only fix upon one thing at a time. Maybe I should buy flowers. Oh what the fuck. Just wait till I go to London and I can start afresh. Now and then, now and then is just a time to enjoy myself. All the little things, the minutiae, which are of little comport.

I could blame thousands of people. I could conduct the silent criticism I always reserve in my heart, only to rebuke it later. Fuck off from here if you don't like it, why bitch to me. Why don't you change things. Whatever. I'm staying here. I like the roads here, and all they remind me off. The roads elsewhere are empty. Blame the older generation for being so scary. I was really scared of them. Maybe they changed my destiny.

with the aged and empty streets too dead for dreaming...
hey mr tambourine man play a song for me
i'm not sleepy, and there is no place i'm going to.

Good luck to you. I hope some of my cynicism has brushed off on you. It's all that I could give you. I hope some day you'll thank me for it, but it's too much to ask.