(no subject)

i just got carded for cigarettes! cigarettes! not booze, but smokes! woo-HA!

"wow, I wouldn't have placed you at that age!"
"i wouldn't either, if i had a choice!"

funny thing is, she looked younger than me, and she was born in '67. pretty kewl.

i also just sent out an e-mail to about 23 locals (all old pals who i'm pretty sure won't have any incredibly pressing committments like kids and so forth), pressuring them to go out and get shitty with me saturday. i'll bet right now that not one person responds positively. i am an ass, after all. oh well. regardless, i'm going out and getting absolutely hammered.

(no subject)

i feel as if i were caught, trapped in some kind of clutch, some ingenious Greek design as in Daedalus's labyrinth for Minos' bastard Minotaur (am i a hideous minotaur? truly a bastard i be, hidden away from my roots for years eating only the good things which have been sent unto me), or perhaps it is Dionysius' sword hanging above me, he asking me 'o Damocle, quoniam te haec vita delectat, ipse eam degustare et fortunam experiri meam?' as i marvel at how easy it is to be centuries dead... what is this jackboot upon my long and emptiful head? i feel the need to go forth, to seek out new places and people, new city-flavors, to boldy go where my self hasn't gone before. but i can't seem to get my boots out from the sand i've been playing in.

maybe i'm just afraid i'll spend up all that's left of my money (financial resources; no income to speak of besides a couple hundred bucks a month out of the kindness of my grandfather), which isn't much now, and won't be able to have any more adventures for so very long that it would be better to wait and lie dormant until something good happens to me instead of me happening to something good. but crap! how lonely and irritable a thought that is! surely there is some way that i can both do and prepare for doing, at once.

so i write? make music? who will buy my book? the same five people who bought my last CD? i want not to see another such grand failure again, it is only fulfilling the angry prophecies of that same grandfather, who always insisted that i can never be right, and that being creative is foolish when there's good solid honest macho toil that can always be done. one can still be seared and suffer, whether it is the back or the soul that longs for peace; it is one or the other, or even both, should one prefer. i would rather suffer and die under the weight of brightly-hued prose than with a rented shovel on my belt and somebody else's shit under my fingernails. i would rather stare into the eyes of god for a second for a song than win such deities' grace, eternal though it be, by burning my body and dissolving my bones in sweat and toil.

shit, i am looking for an easy way out. i am insanely jealous of all those others who never had to bust their asses for years until they sit up late at night crying and holding knives to their already-bleeding hearts. i don't want to play that awful game anymore. it is a farce, and the joke is on the proletariat, the working-class types, destined to either let it end them up in the grave, or on skid row, or both. the rulers of this weird wasteland of tyranny and greed and drive-through greaseshacks only want us to bleed a little more, a little more. for merriment or money? or just to keep us docile and too tired to rise up against their terrible maya?

why can't i look in the sunday classified and see a listing for "creative writers needed. no professionals need apply. $10.50 plus medical, dental, etc." or under "painters needed," read also: "all styles welcome." why can't i answer an ad for backpacking across the Himalayas? for cataloguing the ancients sites of Greece? how come there seems to be no creative help needed? it's been now eleven years since i got my certification in audio engineering, and there isn't even a recording studio on the planet that literally "hires" people.

i need a sunnier clime so i can work outdoors without this gouty finger pain, at least. it always gets much worse in the cold, and when seasons change.

wow. i guess i love Brad.

something not so new, but i hadn't known: Brad fucking rocks! i'm-a get me some Brad. SOON.

(no subject)

this is a story my old friend and [psychedelic] guru Le (pron. Lee) once told me. i don't know where he got it from. it seems somehow ancient, yet clothed in newer rags. i've forgotten most of it, only the not-so-important bits. i'll just make something up to fill in the blanks. the heart of the story [intent] will remain intact. it's probably a famous story that i've just screwed up, but i wanted anyone who perhaps hasn't heard it to read at least my awful paraphrasing of it and have something to contemplate. it's a wonderful story, at least in its purer form, and one that i'll never forget. (well, not the important part anyway.)

if you know what the ending means, click here and tell me. please don't read any comments until you have at least guessed. it's probably very simple, and everyone knows it. probably because everyone already knows this story.

---

it seems that once, a long time ago, there were two men travelling together across a mountain. the mountain was hard and ragged, and offered them little respite. the two began talking to each other about their lives, and the hardships they had seen.

"I have come from many hundreds of miles to the north, and I seek work near the city, so that I might feed my seven children, who are sick," said the first man.

"I have also come from far away, from the east of here. I am searching for the murderer of my wife, and my wife's family, so that i might bring him back to be put on trial," said the second.

the two men went on like this for some time, lugging their heavy backpacks, filled with tools, over the treacherously steep and thin mountain passes. very often one of them would almost fall to his death, and the other would grab him just in the nick of time. finally, they reached the summit. looking down the far side, they saw that there was no way down, only a cliff, and sharp rocks below.

"I wish sometimes that someone would write down instructions for life in a book and send it to me. I wish there were, in this book, not only instructions for living, but also for dealing with troubles, how to overcome all adversities. Also everything else that is worth knowing, and everything else besides that. I wish i could read this book, and discover the secret to life. I wish that I could read in this book the answers to every great question that has plagued all of our best philosophers since the beginning of time, such as 'why are we here?' and 'what is the purpose of existence?' and 'how can we overcome evil?'" one of them said.

the two men turned to start back down the mountain so they could find a better way around. just then, a tiny scrap of paper fell from the sky and floated like a leaf to the ground, landing just behind them. the piece of paper contained a single word.