I have to write. This could be a bad thing; you might not want to read this; it is bound to travel sideways for long .s of time, only to suddenly jump back onto the last trail of words, or was that the trail before, or before? Like a lover returning from a time of absence, love and loins bursting with pent up joy and the last few moments of anticipation, on a boat, the peering out over the railing, down at the dock far below, trying to spot your love, the characteristic brown hair, the jumping and glowing aura of Her energy sustained against the rush of the Evil World.
I’ve tried song; will try song again; will try song time and again, every day, searching for that elusive spot of feeling I felt long ago; or did I? I wonder.
I’m out of my mind
I need to be loved
I need to be loved
As I turn to you and I say
Thank goodness for the good souls
That make life better
As I turn to you and I say
If it wasn’t for the good souls
Life would not matter</i>
I remember the night I first darkened your door And I swore that I loved you My heart was pure I've been reading Eggers to M at night these days, at first hating then getting lost in the self-absorbed ramble, the lies, the too-much-information, then realizing this--(this being the way he writes/thinks/talks in his book--that being sort of the way I'm writing/thinking now)--is the way I think when I think of Her. She is the rapture of my every thought. One minute she's been lost, struck by a car, a bus maybe, something, something quick and dynamic and worthy of her life. To think what she was/would be like without The Illness is impossible, because even with it she glows, positively glows. Her energy is unbelievable. People attract to it like your Boy Scout compass magnet to the North Pole. They want to be near, draw from that pool, that pool that continues to give even when all it should be doing is drying up and turning away all who try and come to its shores. Then she'll come through the door and my heart will jump. She's alive! She dodged every obstacle, every bullet shot from the big-assed gun of the Devil, who would try and take Her from me. He knows that would be my ruin (and so he even makes me think of it so often), the end of me, my life in the physical would continue but my mind would be far, far ahead, to the day when I could once again stand next to Her, She having long since had all her questions answered, She comfortable before the almighty God, chatting it up even, I can see it now, She throwing her head back in a great stomach laugh, Jesus there catching it, it's so contagious that even God himself cannot stop from catching it, his head also thrown back in an incredible heaving chuckle, they having a great laugh about this whole time, looking back on it, it being so small and short now, me walking in, confused, all these mixed emotions, jealous, joy, practically messing myself in various ways, wondering, "Do I get to be near Her again, now, after all this time?" But then she'll come through the door and my heart will jump. Then it is time for me to stop being the Selfish Bastard and start helping to deal with The Illness, treating, managing, trying to sooth, trying to calm, trying to listen even though this damn head of mine WON'T STOP THINKING... ...of all this shit, all these ideas that are still only ideas, that are SO far away from becoming anything resembling reality, that are SO far beyond anything I could possibly accomplish on my own. I need money, yes, money, money, more money to accomplish this, so I can pay other people to do some of this shit to make some of these ideas actually happen and not just die in the vast pile of ideas laying in the back of my head, a vast cemetery, gravestones all sticking out of the gray gray-matter ground. But you can't get paid for ideas, only to write books about getting paid for ideas, that's all really nice and all but has no basis in reality, not in our nice capitalistic society here, not unless it's a business plan you can sell to somebody who already has money because they already turned THEIR Big Idea into a business plan they sold; and now you have to sell to THEM, even though their specialty was a special compound for cleaning the inside of cigarette boat engines (not beautiful and elusive things like information and art), because now they HAVE 10 cigarette boats parked outside of their oceanfront mansion on A1A and YOU have JACK FUCKING SHIT besides all these fucking ideas bouncing around your head and no time or money to see them happen, no time because you're busy writing about it you STUPID SUCKER. Actually, you're stupid if you think you don't have anything. You have everything. The World. Not the Evil World. Just The World. And Her. And you are happy. And you have a site you can curse on all you want and, as of yet, no one is going to stop you from doing that. And if the whole world goes to hell, that's ok, because you're already living in Your Own Little World, and you can stay in YOLW no matter where in the Real World you happen to reside at present, some war zone maybe, within a different kind of chaos, your fatalism honored, you staring death down for the count, that big-assed bus coming down the hill, you in the middle of the crosswalk, your Love having a great laugh with the Lord. But probly even then, not quite yet, probably not quite yet...still hang on, your work is down here not up there like some people, so hang on. Just keep hanging on. Told you. ... Let the whole world sing along, Merry Christmas everyone. (and aside you really need to check out all the songs. so damn good.)