More rain, oh mighty Omega, more rain.
The weather has effectively ruined my weekend. I bummed about yesterday, spent some time at the gym, then drove around trying to find anything to take a picture of.
I found a few things familiar to me, vistas that represent the sort of rustic agricultural charm that encourage some to visit. People come from all over the world of America to pretend that they are standing in a painting of the Sonoma countryside.
There is something troubling about the utter wide-openness here. It is beautiful, of course, but there is something else. When your environment is physically reminiscent of the internal feeling of solitude then that is something that must be contended with, one method or another, though it provides few places to start. It's like telling a person that's depressed that they should just feel better.
Have you tried going for a walk? That always lifts my spirits a bit.
Um no, that hadn't occurred to me. I'll look into it. Have you considered suicide?
Well, no. Suicide is a personal decision and should not be encouraged, nor should it need to be. It becomes obvious at a point, often right after the fact of it.
Solitude is perhaps a necessary component for spiritual growth, but it is torturous for an old hardened reprobate like me. I close my eyes and tilt my head back towards the heavens, peering up into the gray above, muttering my questions… nothing arrives, no message from the skies. It just makes me want to have a relapse of some sort, though I can never quite decide with what.
By mid-afternoon I wanted to go sit in a bar and watch the weather outside, but I didn't. I'm still trying to lose weight. It angers me that it does not all fall off on the mere promise of me now being a changed man, a fit and healthy member of society. I want body weight to function more like a line of credit: make it work and let me bring it home now with a 30 day return policy.
I also want to put a ten inch albino cock on credit, one that slaps against my leg with a dull thud as I walk around the place from room to room. If I wear just workout shorts and stand still with my feet spread apart then I would spontaneously become a Foucault's pendulum, marking the earth's revolving motion through space in wide slow circular patterns, knocking over blocks in some science gallery atrium that my midgets had lined up very carefully in a circle underneath me to represent the successive hours of the day.
For this to function it would require having no balls whatsoever, or very, very small ones, so that they could not interfere with the effect of the earth's motion. The whole enterprise of my genitals would be terrifying when freshly shorn. Just a pale cylindrical horror swinging from leg to leg and then out into the space in front of me. Kids dodging it, laughing along while their parents scream, plead, threaten and admonish. Some would be afraid to come near it, hiding the eyes of children, screaming in the malls, writing letters to their super delegates, etc.
I would of course employ the great white cock only for truly good and noble causes, never succumbing to the ever present temptations of misuse and perversion. I would allow people to set their sundials by it, or to post pictures of lost kitties on it. I would let the Irish hang upside down and kiss it for luck. Whatever. You get the idea.
At some point we must collectively reverse the fallacious notion advanced mostly by armchair feminists that the penis is and should always be an object of horror and fear. Penises should only be ridiculed when they are soft or submerged in cold water. When they are hardened they should command respect, like a vagina but without all the hokey earth-cult stuff. We must collectively move back to a place where only the murky inner workings of womanhood are reviled, returning the miasmic back to its rightful place among the stars. The tremendous white cock can be raised as a pillar of beauty and solitude, a hallmark of man's many achievements, a testament to his sublimely driven nature.
More rain, dear Alpha, much more, wherever you may roam.
Few things are more benighting than the condescension of one age for another… The historian needs something more than sympathy, for sympathy may be… pitying, contemptuous… it must be the sympathy of the man who stands in the midst and sees like one within, not like one without, like a native, not like an alien. He must not sit like a judge exercising extra-terrestrial jurisdiction. - Woodrow Wilson, 1904