A day like other days, though more challenging with its swirling braided countenance of things grim and hopeful. What does a man do to get himself clear, to feel that he has better days ahead? Well, he interrupts as many self-defeating thoughts as he can scoop in his net and replaces them with ones that humor and excite him. And then he leaves work and picks up Ram Dass' Be Love Now to be read from later. Then he makes a salad with everything he can think of that will blast him with clarity and make stout his will. All the while a mantra of Fuck You! is broadcast by various senses. Not Fuck You to himself, not Fuck You to his fellow man. No, it is all the way Fuck You to everything that holds him back, that would see him shackled to fear. He eats and feels his blood come alive. He listens to Mazzy Star. He will meditate and feel loved. The day will end a victory.
--
Met Sarah for drinks last night at The Independent. Our first time hanging out one on one. We have quite a bit in common; there were no awkward silences. The conversation flowed past the shores of Werner Herzog, the shitty-ness of jam bands, people with fractured mental landscapes. Ever since we've met, our paths have crossed in ways that have felt vaguely and elusively meaningful, as if scripted by a different hand. Perhaps.
Tomorrow I will visit my parents after work. A home cooked meal I'll get and my mother will send me home with leftovers and dessert. I feel lousy about using one their cars and almost don't want to see them face to face, lest I collapse into a puddle of shame under their accusing eyes. No, that's not the way of it. I'm looking forward to seeing them.
And I'm looking forward to ending this post and end it I shall.
Stay gold, Pony Boy.
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