Old Hat

"We're old hat, Charles, so this is basically our party."

Those fatal... 10 words, and I am left with the evening now expired. Thankyou, Mr. Childs. Ah, c'mon, I joke, I kid. Seriously, we talked about this. "You can never go back, Tyler. Never go back."

I will spare you the details... at least for the moment, as I already have a headache and I fear recollection will only further the pain.

Thinking...

Well, my good friend and I talked about a pilgrimage. Is anyone up for one of those these days? Yeah, I didn't think so. I think that's what I'm calling whatever it is I'm doing. I don't just mean the motorcycle trip either; I mean my entire actions of the year prior and my entire actions of the year becoming, (which are still unknown to me, of course.) Sure, I guess you could say that calling it a pilgrimage is just some glorified term for having no goals and no future plans of any down-to-earth value, but then again you could go and fuck yourself too, and God gave us free will so pick and choose chirren. Seriously, I have no clue whats been going on lately. I just want a familiarity that forgets me. I just want to see, and be not heard, nor seen, nor disrupted, but reason and absorb and forget and remember. Like being in a city you know, but with no one to be with and no place to be at. I want, I want, I want to stop wanting so much. Then again, the absence of want is the absence, in a sense, of the thirst for life's offerings. I do not want that, I suppose. Give me the authority and I will tell you how it is for the rest of your days; meanwhile, I can barely tie my own goddamn shoes. Do I know why the caged bird sings? Well, yes; it fucking wants out. Out of the cage. I think my cage is this big, fancy, modern day that I keep seeing outside. I think its these big, fancy cars, and silly clothes, and ridiculous television shows and wants and needs and expectations and limits and excess and finance and deficit and consumerism and industrialism and activism and of course, my fucking cynicism. The Almighty, if he ever even existed, would have a fucking field day these days. We are all one big science experiment. I am a free radical. Where the fuck is my solvent cage? I have ranted and raved on and on and now it seems silly since sleep, the only solidarity in my life, is calling.

Honestly, I don't mean to sound so damned sad or dissatisfied all the time. You get three types of entries on this blog. You get the poet (sporatic displacement) you get the philosopher (a rarity these days) and you get the cynic, whose impulsive outbursts have yet again reared their ugly heads on your eyes this evening.

The song I've got playing really isn't all that befitting (don't even know if thats a word) but its a good one so I guess I don't care.

"I love the cigarettes and I love the booze and I love the women and I love this miserable life that envelopes me so."

C.A. Dominick