I woke up this morning, hungover to no surprise. I am not old. Not quite twenty-five, but the closer I get to totally decrepit the more I ponder on my personal vices and their toll on my body and brain. Am I slowing? I seem to have more aches and pains than ever; certainly I’m not an ecstatic person in any sense of the word either. My drinking I know is reactionary to my mood, I certainly do it more when I’m down, but what is it exactly that makes me ‘happy?’ I wouldn’t say I suffer from any sort of crushing depression. I’ve got ups and downs like everybody else. What confounds me I suppose is the instances in my life that I can remember being fully satisfied with every sense. I like weird things.
-Shoving Mikey’s busted van down some bumfuck street on the outskirts of Austin Texas in the middle of summer. I was parched and panting, feeling as if I had just taken an uncomforable nap on top of some giant hot vagina. Still, that last block, despite the screams of my muscles, found me grinning like some madman and I remember clearly thinking that I had never felt so invigorated.
-Delirium induced pornographic drawings with Thomas on a two day Amtrak trip up the West Coast, yelling at two racist old fucks for wagging their fingers at us and accusing us of terrorism. Drinking red wine the whole damn way. I wish I still had that notebook, or at least a photograph.
-Being yelled at on Ocean Beach in Japanese by my then girlfriend because I couldn’t be bothered to try to understand her point of view in English, and a year later standing in the snow, first I’d ever seen as a matter of fact, pumping quarters into a pay phone and crying to one another. Suppose sometimes the best romance is the most volatile.
-Nick trudging uphill in the rain with me in his arms, taking me to the hospital for internal bleeding and a thirty-thousand dollar medical debt.
-My first experience with FISH FUN.
Looking at this quasi-list of favorite stories to revisit just prior to me sleeping, I see the pattern. Some time of total discomfort and tribulation followed by near immediate reward. Also the shared experiences with people who I truly find wonderful. So how do I attain that feeling of both stress and anticipation of joy, which as it seems I find more exciting than joy itself, without losing my mind? Do I run away or stay inside? I have no clue what I am trying to accomplish in this world other than hedonistic pish posh. I focus on gloom and doom too much alone, meanwhile life is so strange and sweet.
Forget the human condition. How about we teach the goats to write novels? Anyone?
A house near the beach in San Francisco. I’ll put up more from this roll later.
