Post-Rapture and A Lot of Borrowed Thoughts

From my bed right now, with the curtains all open and such, I can see a church, the tower, the fog, some non-committal clouds, the top of the crematorium, what should be the ocean and that building up on the hill that is almost all windows which I wish I owned. I think it is a duplex, but I would like to tear down walls and remove floors until it is one big bird perch with a kitchen, a sleeping loft and a massive view.

I would use left over floor and wall bits to build a simple swing just a few feet from the window and big enough to hold two.

We can kick our feet in unison and watch.

Watch.



Not to cheapen it, but real absinthe is something like this video.

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Blanca, the Motherfucking Queen of Spain (in plain clothes) - acrylic and tea on paper by Frohawk Two Feathers, on whom I have an art crush

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ORBIS NON SUFFICIT

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"I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till i drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion."


I am certainly glad that Jesus didn't come by picking out his favorites yesterday because I am not sure I would have made the list. Boozing too often and with too much gusto, cussing like a sailor, not fighting for any worthwhile causes.

But fighting plenty. Fighting plenty, I assure you.

Waking up each day and thinking first and foremost

"What would be the absolute best time I could have today?"

Then picking outfit, goals, demeanor all according to that answer. My insides are fairly teaming with want want want - something I'm not so proud of.

I read an essay by David Foster Wallace in which he posits that we've all got this infantile part of ourselves. This thing that only ever registers dissatisfaction. And how we're sold again and again on the idea that someone somewhere has the cure for that bit of us. The very thing that will shut it up.

And how selling the idea of that is less a lie about the thing you are selling than a lie about the fact that you can NEVER shut that bit of yourself up. It exists just to be dissatisfied.

So no matter how many dashing young men bring food to my apartment. No matter how many Jeeps I buy. No matter how many fresh pairs of Nikes I purchase just to look at them?

Well. Inside of me will always be this screaming infant.

More. More. More.

And faced with this fact I am now attempting to plan a Grand Vacation. I was settled on Hawaii. But for half of what I'd spend going there I could hit Cancun and get a massage every other day for 10 days. Swim in those crystal blue waters I'm always drooling over the memory of. Buy a hundred fruity drinks with umbrellas in them. Pay some dashing sun-bronzed gent or lady to teach me how to play tennis.

And for two thirds of that? I could hit Palm Springs and stay at a hipster spot downtown where all the cool kids go to spend their rockabilly over it all time off. Ride a 3 speed around town in pedal pushers. Get a sunburn by two different pools. Eat steak every night.

Still though. By day 3 of either of those excursions, according to DFW, my inner infant would be finding myriad things to be upset about.

A slight flaw in the bathroom mirror. The slowness of a waitress. The weakness of a cocktail. A stain on my tennis instructor's tiny shorts.

What makes a baby stop crying? Sometimes nothing. Oftentimes it only takes a snuggle.


"Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk — real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious."

Damn right, Kerouac.