It’s like a petting zoo for twisted surrealists. I can never write what I actually feel, always hiding behind the thick veil of abstraction. Is it my male genitalia that doesn’t allow space for feeling, for sense? I don’t know. I go to therapy and talk about stuff, but I can never let myself open up that shadowy cabinet on my own time. It’s easier to allow words to spill out, each one asking the last guy where we’re at in the story and everyone’s lost. I can’t breath man… I mean I can, I’m doing it now, but my lungs aren’t happy with me. There’s no control in this house. We all die one day anyway so what’s control matter then, now, ever? “Through the eyes of God” – takes a sip of tea and thinks of simpler times. That’s how it always goes, right? At least for me! I’m horny for the past. The future is a striptease but the past has its panties wrapped around my eyes and I can’t get enough. Okay enough… I’m not the Hustler Philosopher’s child, I’m just a nonnegotiable receipt for your records only. Let’s get back to feelings, thoughts, that’s why I bought this book in the first place right? I’m frustrated I think. I’m constantly feeling lost, then found, then lost again. I want there to be no questions except those I can answer. No sensation without a root, no puppet without its master… but maybe the puppet is in charge. Pinocchio had something going there. The world is uncertain, and that’s okay I guess, but at least give us a hint, a clue… am I on the right path? Am I on A path? Are there even paths? There are so many clichés to answer these questions that I could build a cliché skyscraper, jump off, and never find the ground. What’s all the searching for anyway? When I was a child there were no questions. I existed at the edge of the universe, expanding at the speed of light, skirting against the unknown without a care in the world. That’s not me anymore, or maybe I just forgot how to forget. It’s not like I “know too much”. I still feel clueless as ever. But the voice in my head asks unanswerable questions just so it could scoff at me as I dig under rocks searching for nonexistent truths. Today I told my therapist that I wished I was just an energy field, without sensation at all. I probably don’t actually want that, but the idea was that without sensations, nothing would trigger the anxieties associated with ‘solving’ for the source of them. Nothingness would be no fun though, I know that and who am I kidding, I’m like Frank O’Hara when it comes to loving benign existence… until I don’t I guess. We’re all like that in a way. Monet and Picasso can all be drawn in binary if the units are small enough. The infinite flow and flux of on and off make the craziness that is “in-between”. I do love life, or at least I love to love life, but these dam road blocks present themselves not as part of the hero’s journey, but as rips in the film itself as the projectionist is up there asleep in his box. I don’t think my suffering is unique or more difficult than anyone else’s. Suffering is suffering, even the off-brand stuff tastes the same. I’ve had it easy, I’ve had it real good. Sure I’ve been through my fair share of fuckery, but the foundation that built this house is sound. That’s more than a lot of people can say, and some of those same people have built mansions out of sticks and stones. I don’t have the answers, I wish I did. All I know is that the road is wet and there’s no emergency break. If I swerve for every mysterious sensation, every unanswered question mark in my head, I’m going straight off the cliff into oblivion. Slow down, grandma’s in the back with a pot of hot stew and the only sure arrival point we have is death (not to be dramatic), and no matter how vigorously we swerve around those corners, we’ll always arrive on time.
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