mad drunk genius

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

Tag: existentialism

Scribbled year-old impressions recovered

——’Isnt it a lovely
——sweet sort of fresh
——sort of something?’
The window for success
is always opening in
some places & closing in
others. It’s important to
make it as large as
possible & squeeze thru.
——’It’s OK, we’re all subject
——to the bias of our own
——lives & experiences.’
Hey, keep your eyes on the
prize but also on the path
to it.

——’I dont do all the great work
——I could have.’ No one has or
——does. ‘There’s some possible
——universe where I did, tho.’
I am not the man I used to
be. But I havent long been
a man, if ever.
——’Show me how to
——know better what to do.’
——’Do what?’ ‘That’s what
——I’m asking.’

Sober hallucinations are the strangest

I had this same thing sketched out on one of my favorite notebooks, but it was one of the big reporter’s notebooks, so it fell out of my pocket at some point, and I never noticed it till day’s end, and it was lost.

But it was about a strange thing, to hallucinate while not high or drunk.

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Rabble rabble

I know I’m not an important person to most people. Well, to anyone outside of family, really. I’m not especially unimportant, either, but largely, I am either some guy or simply unknown. This is the way of things, the way of the world from time immemorial.

Rationally, of course, I’ve known this for some time, but the more life goes on and I return to places I’ve left that are gettting on as good or better without me, I feel it. And I don’t like the feeling.

I don’t have any reason to return anywhere, and they don’t have any reason to want me to. I knew them in a certain time and place, and our interactions were pleasant and comfortable, but once I’m removed from the situation, life just goes on.

When other people do it to me, I’m probably more rude than most. I don’t mean to be, it’s just the consciousness of it gets in the way or something. We don’t relate anymore. We were only tethered by our common circumstances and that is forever gone. What reason should I have to talk with you and pretend otherwise?

You grow up as a child and there was nothing in the world before you were born, nothing important anyhow, and people treat you as if you’re the most important person on earth. Then you grow up a bit and things get behind you, and a new group of young people comes up with more promise and receives more attention and deserves it more. And what are you left with except acceptance of reality?

What a height to fall from and a depth to.

Fading quickly

I’m so tired. Why, I’m practically falling asleep upright. Or am I dying? Am I the dead?

If this is death, I can’t say it’s that bad. Definitely not something to look forward to, but okay.

We are the dead. Conscious corpses shuffling about. Not really alive, just weary.

Or maybe that’s life. Routine and mundane and willful neglect of the everyday divine. Maybe death is when you become unconscious of all this and just lie down to rot. Or get hit by a car, or blown to pieces. Or torn limb from limb by a pack of wild dogs.

I wonder.

Now, let’s say this is life and we are living it. But in a way that’s only slightly better than being dead. What then? Shuffle on and appreciate life for what it is? Or reach higher for things beyond the mundane?

Nah, I’m too tired. I think I’ll go to sleep.

Gutter of consciousness

The unseen, the unheard, the unknown, the unavailable, the infinite, ineffable, indolent, incapacitated, articulate, article of faith that sweeps me off the threshing floor into the Great Fire as it burn higher and consumes my dry flesh, not meant for consumption in this world or the next.

I am a whore and a harlot, a slut and a starlet. I devour the flesh that pleases my eye without concern for source or why, but I need it. I need it like I need air and I must have it or else I’ll die. Starve and shrivel up and my unquenched thirst will parch me.

But to eat, to eat is to sin, to eat is to enjoy and that cannot be. It cannot be. The utterly vile desires of a base mind, a corrupt mind. But I live in a corrupt world. Do I not deserve to enjoy myself as I see fit? As it is fit. Is not God at fault for being pure in a world that is not?

I am justified in my action because I am a natural man and I behave naturally doing the things that come natural to me, and doing them with pleasure. Nay, gusto. Shall I stay in a moral torpor when I can be sinfully vigorous?

Is not sloth a sin?

If I do as I please, then it pleases God. He wants me to be happy and it makes him happy to see me happy. So that should be my greatest method of honoring him, no?

I am a created being and if he is my maker, my faults are his. Not mine. Certainly not mine. I am a wind up doll and he wound me up wrong and the wounds I feel and inflict are from his very hands, albeit it indirectly.

I am justified in doing evil because there is no evil. There is only existence and nothing after and I should feel rapture because I shall not be taken away from this place. I shall die and find myself disappointed with oblivion.

What greater sin is there than disappointment?

God I love football

This is being written at the time of the 2006 Rose Bowl where Texas just won an incredible game over the USC Trojans.

My heart is pounding, my head is swimming… I don’t even know what to say.

I hate USC. I do. I hate them almost as much as I hate the New England Patriots. And that’s saying a lot. But I’m neutral toward Texas. I rooted for them like hell in this game but only because a.) they weren’t USC and b.) they’re from Texas.

Maybe that’s part of it. I mean, sports is a great thing. It’s almost a religious experience, and I don’t mean that as a hyperbole. Sports help us to be a part of something larger than ourselves, to tie ourselves to a bigger entity and hundreds or thousands or millions of other people. It fills that need. When our team succeeds, we succeed. And as sweet and satisfying as that is, it’s just as crushing when they fail. Because we’re failures.

But with either, we’re feeling those emotions through our team and their accomplishments, and maybe it’s more powerful than if we were experiencing it ourselves. Texas won, and I’m a Texan. Texas is a better state than California because of this game.

There’s nothing reasonable about it, but feelings are rarely reasonable, and damn it, that’s how that makes me feel. I’m a success because the team I wanted to win won and the team I wanted to lose lost. That simple.

It’s a meaningless game in the greater scheme of things. It’s just a college football game, even if it’s for a national championship. But a lot of things are just whatever. A child’s birth is just another carbon lifeform sucking up air. A war is just a bunch of specks of dust fighting on a grain of sand.

Those are both hyperboles, of course, but unless you count the feelings and the effect on the human spirit, the human condition, nothing is anything.

Football is the greatest sport in the world. It’s great because of the interaction between preparation and performance, the balance between talent and coaching. The way possessions work and the wonderful math of scoring points. It’s great because every play is a build up and release of tension, and things can change so drastically each time. I guess I could try to explain it more than that, but if you love soccer or basketball or baseball, I can’t convince why those aren’t as good. Love isn’t reasonable either.

I love football, and at times, every hope and dream in my life is tied to eleven men trying to matriculate a ball across an imaginary line, or stop eleven men from doing so.

My entire week can be ruined by the events on a field thousands of miles away involving people I have never met and probably never will. Sad thing is, Hurricane Katrina or Rita didn’t do this to me. Not even the Christmas Tsunami or Pakistani earthquake made me feel anything. I didn’t give a rat’s ass about 9/11 except for the fact that I was annoyed over how much they would keep showing it on television. I could give you similar examples of my lack of religious faith or empathy, but I think you get the idea. Real things, things that should matter, just don’t to me, because I don’t relate to New Yorkers or Indians. I’ve never been there and only met a few people from there. I don’t love them. I love football.

I love it, and up to a certain point, I can’t explain why.

But then that’s love.