i try to reserve the concept of hate for instances which are most deserving of it, since i personally disapprove of hatred, in spite of my own regrettable inability to  divorce my self from the actual practice of hating. hate is wrong, & yet i hate. i hate stuff all the time. such is this hypocrisy, mine.

i fancy my self an idealist, in iconoclast, a rebel with or without any particular real reason to exist in a state of rebellion. & yet i am the sort of person who will endure seven & maybe even eighteen years of ridiculously suppressive influence & make only the most abortive & pathetic attempts to prevail & escape.

<note: i was quite hammered when i wrote this. click more at own risk>

& yes, i am still here. & so what of this idealism, this idolatry of the progressive, this lip service to strength  which i fail entirely to demonstrate in my own (not pathetic, but only barely) life? well what of it. i can have my beliefs & live in something entirely less than them & still believe, right?

well that’s the whole question right there, isn’t it? where are my gonzo values where it comes to this life, mine? how do i reconcile the vast chasm between my self & these beliefs, mine?

in a word (or two)? i don’t. wait, that’s three words, technically. fuck them, they’re just words. what of these actions &/or the lack thereof, mine?

there is no excuse. there are reasons, but they are contemptible & weak. i believe there was once strength in me, but i cannot swear to that as truth. there is no reality but the one i have surrendered my self into now, here. & it is absolutely true that this here/now is not what i idealized, not what i felt i was meant to be. but it is what i worked for, & what i (apparently) deserve.

hear the uncertainty there? the wishful bullshit inherent in me saying maybe this is somehow undeserved, that the resignation with which i approach the rest of my lease on physical consciousness might somehow turn out to be misguided? that i might only be indulging in some sort of  inappropriate self-flagellation when i claim i’ve relinquished hope of any transcendent connection ever in favor of … whatever … & that was actually supposed to be a sentence & make sense, as if!

i had a thing to say but it was contemptible & weak. for the record, i did have good intentions at some point. where they are now, i cannot tell you, because, well, whenever this happens, my dog crawls up into my lap & uses her nose to dislodge my arms from reaching the keyboard, & i forget.

anyway. here i am writing this & the chance of it being read being remote, i feel freed to go ahead & admit it, i am a hypocrite. i talk a big game but in the end i surrender, & not in that good way. it’s just contemptible & weak.

oh well, at least it’s easy.

under the bridges, over the phone,
wind on the water, carry me home …

if only i were the wishing type, i’d be on about wanting to stay up even later, typing typing typing, or ideally involved in something else which would somehow still enable me to express my self without the tiny annoying tapping noises that might wake the sleeping forces outside of me keeping me now from saying, in fullness, what i am trying to say.

tequila helps. & if only i could hold my self to my new theme of social consciousness, & refrain from this descent into selfish subconsious nonsense, well, that would be good too. this would be a better blog for that, but alas, it is not.

as it is i am the embodiment of the spirit of all my own undoings, & this post will not deviate bravely from that, as most of the last few posts have attempted to do.

it is late. i am alone. any delusions of other than aloneness were purely that, & nothing further. i leave this note to my self to remind me of this, in case i wake from dreams suggesting otherwise. i often do that, you know. i live this life in my sleep wild beyond any i might hope to live awake. i have these dreams real as day, & you can not tell me they do not constitute an alternative to what we consider ‘real’ in the world. i have these dreams as tangible as anything, i really do. but it’s all impulses traveling down the synapses, everything is.

perception isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.

i have these dreams, you see.

& on occasion stay up ’till near dawn dreaming them across these keys, in a way that suggests reality but is decidedly disingenuous in doing so. & i am (in this case at least) not alone in this deception, inflammatory influences (for once) not all my own have driven these things to consume most of me & what i perceive to be my physical self. & this, i confess, is sweetness indeed. & for the moment, this moment & the ones just before it & perhaps just a delicious few more, this defines the concept of pleasure to me. but then again words are defined by other words, which means these feelings are as real as these words, & nothing more.

& so i tap them into being on these keys, in order that i may dismiss them like the dreams they are, no matter how well-documented their existence.

existence can not be documented in text, especially at this hour.

it cannot be put into words, & not just because words make typing sounds & it is not the time for that. mostly, it is because the entire pursuit is consumed, by its very nature. by futility.

words. that’s it. nothing more.