Well, I made it homeward through rain and flight delays, landing at the wrong airport (Oakland), then taking a bus across the bay to SFO, then another to long term parking, then the long drive home, North along the coast, the end of the earths.
I think they should put Planned Parenthood clinics in airports. Then, let's get down to the heart of the mattress. Make them all Duty-Free… … for a good liberal laugh.
I did get to listen to the new-ish Father John Misty album on the drive from SFO to home. Each time that I make that drive it feels as if it is becoming ever longer. Perhaps California is sliding into the ocean. Or, my apartment is only stretching away from the airport.
It's a start... I suppose. I'm glad to be home, even if I am tilting towards the Pacific.
Love, the tale of time.
Well.
CS wrote well this morning about adventure, its consequences. I relate to some of his observations about self; the self interacting with the idea of self; the memory of past selves; being honest concerning the results. It's tougher than many must guess. Most do not make a life out of confession, they form a life from it. Writing forces this, in a way, conceals it in another. Writing is like having a drinking problem. There are lots of oval justifications, that are barely navigable by others, yet they seem to almost make sense.
I've been thinking about it a lot lately, drinking. Some would say that thinking about something is significant, or meaningful, or indicative. This is of the, whoever smelt it dealt it variety of intellect.
People are uncomfortable discussing drinking, unless they're discussing it with someone who drinks more than them. Until they're drinking. Everybody needs a gauge.
Similarly, when writers begin to publicly discuss what they do. It is shameful and few walk away feeling good about having witnessed any of it it. It is a form of wetting yourself and then wondering aloud how all of that urine came to be inside of your trousers.
I only quote myself when I am speaking as another, you see.
I have been drinking a bit more than what can be considered usual, for me; there was a smattering of memories stretching back towards the river Lethe, then Burning Man™, one dumb night out on Sonoma Square, one guest here the weekend before that, then a Vegas trip just this last. Then, today.
The weekends are hobbling me - candy corrosive, with the tiniest witch digits.
Weekends have become like small-people that are outrunning me in little potato sacks. I can see the rumbling of the root, feel it lifting from the ground. As if in slow motion, the mini weekends are beating my potatoes live at the jamboree, on tambourines.
Like drums.
Like earth.
Like I.
The smallest of things matter more than can be stopped, or slowed. I seek to jangle.
Once you've seen those monkeys fly within The Wizard of Oz, then you are no longer obligated to believe so much in anymore.
It was Love at every site .
.
