mad drunk genius

I used to have all sorts of problems. Now there's just the one.

Month: January, 2015

Alcoholism is a meritocracy.

The night give up the morning when the birds say.
Dawn is a formality only.
——Non-human persons make sense to me.
——Human non-persons, too.
——An acorn is an oak but not a tree.
——A dolphin neednt thumbs for empathy.
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The wisdom of teeth is only one thing.

Don’t even worry about it.
It sure ain’t worried about you.
—Nah, misery don’t love company.
—Misery love itself only.
Nothing in the universe love or hate you.
It just a busy place & everywhere a
thoroughfare with you standing a-middle.

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And then one day no suns will rise on anyone again

It’s terrifying to think how much of your life & actions can be predicted accurately by probability. For you, an interaction with someone in customer service is you making decisions about what to say and do. But for them, you’re just repeating something from one of a handful of categories they hear every day.

Poll a thousand people picked randomly enough and you’ve got a great idea of what 300 million will do.

If instead of an election, we had a full census and lottery, and picked a thousand to come serve in Congress for two years, we’d have the equivalent of a full, direct democracy.

This is terrifying. You’re not a creature with agency & will: all of your complexity gets smoothed out when there’s even more complexity to average out around you. How miserable, that all those billions of years & hundred trillion cells in your body, all coming to this, to make you the same as millions of other people.

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Time turns danger to nostalgia.

We think secrets are like air in a balloon, and if we hide them away long enough, they’ll deflate on their own. But they’re like money. They come out with compound interest.

 

Somewhere there’s a coal mine of cool. Someone, usually black or gay, will dig out something and push it all the way to the top. Then, usually, someone else comes along at the end and steals it. That person is invariably white, and pretends that taking it the last hundred feet was the same as the earlier thousand.

 

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After the rains

Current, like electricity.
——ocular, after
help isnt a perfect opportunity
——ants, termites
apple of
my eye
—after, we’re thru it
isnt all I intended
—education, medication, reminders
youth recreation, we all enjoying it
—Democracy, a moment

After the rain the
near drowned worms
bake & shrivel
gasping

My eye has shooting
pains like my
eye can feel Read the rest of this entry »

Too sloppy

I wrote a few more things in 2014 than what was published here. But not many more.

And I wonder what in god’s name is going to happen to me.

I don’t drink as much as I used to. And that’s part of it. The elixir of certainty helps push through any dams of self-doubt with much flash-flooding force. But also it certainly must be my inability to find aloneness and distill thoughts, or have them at all.

Sex is good. I’m in a relationship that seems to be ongoingly possible for its non-exclusiveness. There are rules. There is honor. But it is not staid, and there is much room for adventure.

So I’m happy. Work, when I have it, doesn’t make me ponder the bottle of Draino or seek the loaded handgun. But I don’t produce anything. My happiness, once it’s passed away, leads to nothing.

I always forget, when recalling past moments, how miserable I was from about junior high on till recent. It makes sense, from the perspective of natural selection, why a body oughtn’t remember clearly how bad things were once before. But this one small trick is enough to fool everything about one’s self.

So here I am, mostly satisfied in the moment, but sending no messages to my future selves or others to remind them of that self-span’s worth.

I do more psychedelics now. Maybe that’s it. It’s easy to blame ego-bruisers for the lack of initiative I know I experience. Alcohol makes one stupid, and certain. Hallucinogens make one no more intelligent, but more aware of one’s failings, and less certain of gifts.

Is that it?

No: I think that if I were alone for more hours each day, could afford the bar tab, I’d come to sit alone and fill my belly with the conviction to vomit ideas out of reverberating neurons to pecking fingers.

Still, I’m too old now, too slothful & too sloppy, to think myself capable of immortal genius anymore.

But the genius of alcohol is its ability to shush that critic with lies that say, ‘You are that wonderful, perhaps,’ and in morning light, you know you’re not, but at least you did something. And life requires doing things, even if someone has done it before & better already.

If I’m not a writer, then I’m just some guy. Well, I know I’m just some guy.  But drunk & writing, I know I can  be more than that to someone else.

Maybe.