Here's a question that's always bothered me: I'm not sure whether I'm entirely 100% sane or not. I suspect I am, but you never know for sure. I think I'm just touched at times. It's really easy for me to ACT sane though. Does it take being sane to act? I don't think so - see: Artaud. Anyway, here it is tuesday evening in the world and I am drinking a budweiser (my last, my next is a Chelado -Budweiser & Clamato - I don't know what the hell that's doing in my fridge, it's hangover beer) and I've scarfed down some Lorazapams and I'm waiting for the muses to come into this room and caress my eyelids and whisper something in my ear. Something I haven't heard before, which draws the curtains of my thinking down and reveals the hounds and fairies dancing around backstage.
Nothing's. Happening. But. Time. This time.
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At any rate...
Or shall a poet be content to languish
In the degradation of what heaven gave
To be his right? the highest human power
Frittered away to serve your little hour?
Faust Pt. 1
I love that line, because I am tormented by certain people and their little hours... especially when they come and try to murder yours (which you consider precious)... Most people can't survive their own minds, which is the problem. When they get bored and have to climb back into themselves for a moment... they look around, see the desolate wasteland, the thick slime-deposits outgassing... and then an image invariably bubbles up... your face rises out of the dung. it floats above. they must make it real to escape themselves... they pick up the phone... you don't answer (they're calling air)... it doesn't matter. They know where to find you. It's your day off (they know all your days off, by the way) and you are at home and they know how to get there. You might have even forgotten to lock the door.
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Charmin
See ~ Zygote in My Coffee 3-16-09
