Now that I've grown up, it's time for me to leave home. I plan to take little with me. Like Tom Sawyer, or Ben Franklin maybe.
Just a few items of clothing wrapped in a diaper which will swing jauntily from a stick which will sit mostly on my left shoulder.
I will find me a city, where nobody knows me, and settle it down, on the old side of town. I'll find a feeling, and we will be happy, I won't ever run out, like I'm runnin out now. And I'll never be found and I won't have to pay for what I have to do, nor what we've done today [courtesy, HT Young]
The best t-shirts are old. The old t-shirts are trash.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Journaling
Journalling? Certainly not two ells. Noel is best. One 'ell is enough for anybody. But I've got a couple ells in my journalling.
I say, Yeah I journal. And everybody says, wow that's really great. But they haven't read the crap. I do all the time. It's sorta like watching a car crash over and over and over and..... really the same crap pretty much every day for about a year and a half. There's the part that's fun, which I downplay, and then the endless psycho-philosophical babble which can be summed up in a single word. Maybe. (That's the word) Maybe I'll do something different and break out of this hideous rut (rut is in the middle of truth), in which ALL I do is journal. You name it, whatever else it is, I probably don't do it. I, yes, play a little music, and write a little music, and earn some of the money I get paid. But who I am. That person came out last week at fiddle camp. A pleasant, decent sort of guy. Very tired, but decent. Too tired and too decent to journal much.
Then I got home, and out came the journal for the several hundredth recording of the agony and the sort of ecstasy, neither of which is so dramatic really. It's just what happens in the hours. And it is so boring I should stop. But there is a fascination. And fear. So I watch no TV. I wait for the next episode of my lack of a life, which I will faithfully record in my ninth book of journalling this year. Which I will read. And which will, yes, put me to sleep. Like the good dog I am.
I say, Yeah I journal. And everybody says, wow that's really great. But they haven't read the crap. I do all the time. It's sorta like watching a car crash over and over and over and..... really the same crap pretty much every day for about a year and a half. There's the part that's fun, which I downplay, and then the endless psycho-philosophical babble which can be summed up in a single word. Maybe. (That's the word) Maybe I'll do something different and break out of this hideous rut (rut is in the middle of truth), in which ALL I do is journal. You name it, whatever else it is, I probably don't do it. I, yes, play a little music, and write a little music, and earn some of the money I get paid. But who I am. That person came out last week at fiddle camp. A pleasant, decent sort of guy. Very tired, but decent. Too tired and too decent to journal much.
Then I got home, and out came the journal for the several hundredth recording of the agony and the sort of ecstasy, neither of which is so dramatic really. It's just what happens in the hours. And it is so boring I should stop. But there is a fascination. And fear. So I watch no TV. I wait for the next episode of my lack of a life, which I will faithfully record in my ninth book of journalling this year. Which I will read. And which will, yes, put me to sleep. Like the good dog I am.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
What doesn't make you strong
Your friends won't kill you, unless they turn on you and forget to turn back. Turn back! before it's too late. Sh.....ucks.
Panic disorder is not understood. This makes it stand out among emotional disorders, all of the others of which are completely transparent to the medical community. And that other community: therapists, counselors, social workers, attorneys, politicians, cab drivers, and band front men. Not to mention your spouse who knows absolutely everything.
What doesn't kill you? Will wound you. Probably. My status as an only child (only a child) gives me special understanding of mental illness.
Narcissicm. What will kill me can be avoided or cured. I will live forever. Which is not as long as is generally believed.
It just feels like it.
I repeat, what will kill me, I should really avoid. No matter how much fun. For instance, merry-go-rounds. I know you're thinking Harmless! but there's something sinister, especially at night, after the park is closed. And those happy plastic creatures, like the dolphins in Bob's song.
Best to say goodbye to your children and drink a last cup of wine, sez Bob.
I want to relate the interesting and (you won't believe it) unbelieveable benefit I have gotten from years of unremitting anxiety (it remits occasionally). Nothing scares me anymore. Seriously. I am pumped plumb out of adrenaline. Last week my friend and neighbor had to shoot a rattlesnake in our pump house. I was the one who "found" the snake -- that is to say, I was inches from it and upset its afternoon nap. No fear! On my part. Poor snake was terrified. I thought maybe it was my breath, and I was right. Another example. Hit a lizard on I40 just east of Memphis. No adrenaline. Not much reaction at all, although the bastard tore up the front of my Civic.
I really want a big Lexus. And to be a pimp for real live hookers. Not high class, not low. I have no (real) fear, only silly fear.
The situation really kills me. I don't need late night TV. I have life for comedy.
Panic disorder is not understood. This makes it stand out among emotional disorders, all of the others of which are completely transparent to the medical community. And that other community: therapists, counselors, social workers, attorneys, politicians, cab drivers, and band front men. Not to mention your spouse who knows absolutely everything.
What doesn't kill you? Will wound you. Probably. My status as an only child (only a child) gives me special understanding of mental illness.
Narcissicm. What will kill me can be avoided or cured. I will live forever. Which is not as long as is generally believed.
It just feels like it.
I repeat, what will kill me, I should really avoid. No matter how much fun. For instance, merry-go-rounds. I know you're thinking Harmless! but there's something sinister, especially at night, after the park is closed. And those happy plastic creatures, like the dolphins in Bob's song.
Best to say goodbye to your children and drink a last cup of wine, sez Bob.
I want to relate the interesting and (you won't believe it) unbelieveable benefit I have gotten from years of unremitting anxiety (it remits occasionally). Nothing scares me anymore. Seriously. I am pumped plumb out of adrenaline. Last week my friend and neighbor had to shoot a rattlesnake in our pump house. I was the one who "found" the snake -- that is to say, I was inches from it and upset its afternoon nap. No fear! On my part. Poor snake was terrified. I thought maybe it was my breath, and I was right. Another example. Hit a lizard on I40 just east of Memphis. No adrenaline. Not much reaction at all, although the bastard tore up the front of my Civic.
I really want a big Lexus. And to be a pimp for real live hookers. Not high class, not low. I have no (real) fear, only silly fear.
The situation really kills me. I don't need late night TV. I have life for comedy.
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