How many socks is everything
At a college bar, arguing art, inspiration, the genius of Jim Morrison. At the end was he still clever and the poetry just too much unrestrained genius for mere mortals to comprehend, or was it just the pure unadulterated shit from a lazy and undisciplined former talent?
It’s the tension, I said. The need to be creative in opposition to something. It’s the Prolific and the Devouring. The Satanic creativity chokes itself to death without some fire coming to burn up the chaff, to force it to go beyond its own wont and find some new path.
But my trouble ain’t in not having restraint; like most people it’s not having enough genius. My brain don’t have the good thoughts anymore, my eye has cataracts even for what it sees clear. I can’t hear nothing, and what I do hear, I don’t write down so it’s just lost.
The other day, on the bus, fellow says, ‘I can’t talk. I used to be pretty. I’m kinda fat now. And nappy-headed. But I’m still pretty.’ ‘Cept not that exactly because he used a different word than pretty before using a mocking an African immigrant next to him and ‘joking’ for 10 minutes about eating his dog. Dude was drunk and stoned, but that’s just a bus ride, and I warnt drug nor stoned and didn’t write down nothing so what even was the point of bothering to notice or drop eaves?
There’s creativity just in bothering to notice reality and preserve it, present it in a certain way. I lost it. All I got left is arguing with people, writing in opposition to an idea. Hatred and spite, that’s all I can manage. It’s all I’m good for, some inert blob except when provoked, like a frog corpse that kicks reflexively when jolted with electricity.
After the original argument at that same college bar, I played darts on boards warped tit-shape till some fellow rolling on I don’t know what did climb up on his drink table, then go lay down on a pool table, then get coaxed down to take off shoes and socks for maybe half an hour before climbing again on the table and starting to play with his fly as like to try to water the billiard green. That brought the server and bartender, and he got off but laid down on a second pool table, then chased off that, laid down on the first one again till he got pulled off by his ankles and threatened with physical violence to get the fuck on out.
But I didn’t take any details down in the moment, no shirt color, nothing about the hair style, or how many socks he had on going out the door, and that’s fucking life man! That’s everything.
I used to have people who’d ask and chew me out for not knowing what color eyes a dead toddler had, and now I can’t even count socks. So what’s the point?