serious living

My nights are filled with loud music and simple songs, ear-splitting frequencies resonating and bouncing around the inside of my skull. We make a racket and work to a fever pitch and then we break down doors and demolish barriers with ham-fisted guitars and the notion of rocknroll as salvation/liberation.

My days are spent dodging malaise. Barely a dime in these pockets and too many goals to achieve. I whittle away at my dreams and force them to take shape. The shavings touch the granite floor and form a Rorschasch pattern around my feet.

There is alcohol to erase the slate, smoke to incite the gods, and banquets to sate the soul. My head is a whirlpool of chemical reactions.

Sex is a trembling drive buried deep beneath my superficial layers. The ultimate drug, really-- all high and no comedown. But the side effects are murderous, creating evenly-spaced aches in the wake of my climaxes.

Some days I tell myself that I want to marry her, and other days I realize that it's useless to contemplate such things because it seems like we are already married. This gandy-dance that we occupy ourselves with is nothing more than a formality, a polite charade.

There is money, and then there is none. I feel exhilaration nonetheless.

A canvas half-painted sits on an easel in my kitchen, staring me down. It implores me to finish the job. I have made plans to sprawl the canvas out on the floor and begin the final ornamentation that (I have concluded) will render it worthy of transcending the mundane.

I can't stop now-- it's all coming down the pike at rapid speed, and I'm standing there flinching as I hold my hands out to receive whatever is traveling through the chute.

Saturday night I drove my car among the winding canyons with friends in tow, howling like monkeys at the hypnotic watch-faced moon glowering in the ebony-night sky. Vows were sworn, egos shattered, my mind disordered then shuffled and reorganized.

The club housed metallic sheets of cacophony while I held a strong mixed drink in my hand. We were corralled like a herd behind imaginary lines in the carpet.

I love the way her neck smells when I've been drinking, I love the way her soft skin feels, and when we ditch the masses and deliberately lose ourselves it is as if we have rejected the mores of this tight-wadded nation outright. She and I often go into seclusion and refuse to emerge until the tension outside our doors dies down...

No time to jot it all down-- smudged impressions will do for now...