Wednesday, March 25, 2020

More Death or Sex

Like any conscientious American, I am exploring a number of competing doomsday scenarios. My fear, of course, is that the president and his team will prove to be minimally competent or incredibly lucky, or a combination of both, which would disrupt my expectations.

Oh yeah, no politics. What the fuck am I doing? I guess it's not really politics, it's a jest made of hatred and poison. That's the beef I have with the paragraph.

I was 33 on 9/11. At 51, I am beginning to understand how people reach a place within themselves in which they just don't want to live through things any more. 

People watching lately has been interesting. Taking the dogs out for a walk around the neighborhood, something I do almost every day, has become an adventure in pop psychology. My observation is that everyone is amplifying their most reliable trait, whether they want to or not. In addition to the feeling that we can not stop the spread of the virus, we can not stop ourselves. 

A friend of mine offered me some acid to help get me through this with some clarity. Told him I might take him up on it.  Sometimes it is best to stare right into the sun, if you ever want to see the thing. Or, if you ever want to see it again. When I am trying to go to sleep I will sometimes stare into an amorphous region of purplish that is generated, I believe, by my cortex visualis or maybe the optic nerve. Or, maybe the mind generates the impression of a color seen as a reaction to the absence of stimuli. I'm not sure. But if I can stop talking there in the darkness long enough then I can fall into it, but I can never remember having fallen. Hell is the lingering in the extended, restless darkness. But you already know that.

The infrastructure will collapse
Voltage spikes
Throw your keys in the bowl
Kiss your husband goodnight