I like the phrase 'bizarre ramifications.'
It seems to sum up life.
And yes, perhaps clothes are for the weak, but we should still desire a keen 'eye' for nuance.
A sturdy pair of boots, and a nice hat.
...with a cane that is secretly a sword...like a ninja
__________________ "WITHOUT A LITTLE EVIL, GOOD WOULD NEVER EXIST"
Dressed in black, we'd become the Cane Brigade.
Don't mess with us or else, swoosh. And then, swash.
" Oh, that wound there, yes--apply direct pressure."
__________________ Time is still the infinite jest.
Because I am constantly out of place, and 4 degrees to the west.
Besides, I stole the Cane Brigade idea off of William S. Burroughs.
So really I'm just stealing from the dead.
__________________ Time is still the infinite jest.
There are some goings on in the administration of a functioning message board that must be left unquestioned, lest the whole system break down and give way to pure anarchy and zombie attacks. You don't want to get eaten by zombies, do you? Oh. Really? That's unusual.
There are some goings on in the administration of a functioning message board that must be left unquestioned, lest the whole system break down and give way to pure anarchy and zombie attacks. You don't want to get eaten by zombies, do you? Oh. Really? That's unusual.
What's the shiniest rock you've ever seen?
Actually, some day I wouldn't mind to hear a knock back at me, you know, this is when I am crypt tapping. Then, at least, I would know for sure there was something more. I would hear the tap back, and I would smile, because there would be something after death I could look forward too.
Scaring the shit out of the living into really fucking living.
Eaten by zombies. Ahh fuck it...why not!
My grannies' tombstone.
__________________ Time is still the infinite jest.
Not heroin. No.
More like at the park in the movie, y'know, Sean Connery voice guy...tranquilizer gun.
Trainspotting, here is, going out back and shooting at the grizzley squirrels. Just kidding. I only shoot at the crows.
I throw nuts at the squirrels. Then they sneak into my garage and hide the nuts in my dead grannies chair. It's a game we play when we're bored, me and my little friends.
Nucking futz, eh?
__________________ Time is still the infinite jest.
I haven't seen a squirrel since I left California. The little brutes were huge, there. Enormous. When I was bumming through the redwoods, I considered though briefly that if food got scarce, I could probably kill one and eat it. I never did; I don't think I could have forgiven myself if I had. But if you're ever in a situation like that, you'll understand the thought patterns. Life and death on the highway hang on the subtle balance of the lug on your back bike wheel. If that fucker goes, so do you, and when you're careening down a hill at fifty miles per hour with bad brakes and crippling horror, you think a lot about your back lug. You wonder how well you screwed it back on after replacing your tire. You begin to feel serious Doubt about it. As the wind screams in your ears and numbs your lips and bites at your eyes, you think a lot about that goddamned back lug, and the influence of its stability on your continued existence. One slip out of place, and you'll flip end over end down the roughly paved Humboldt County highway. Ugly, bloody death.
I haven't seen a squirrel since I left California. The little brutes were huge, there. Enormous. When I was bumming through the redwoods, I considered though briefly that if food got scarce, I could probably kill one and eat it. I never did; I don't think I could have forgiven myself if I had. But if you're ever in a situation like that, you'll understand the thought patterns. Life and death on the highway hang on the subtle balance of the lug on your back bike wheel. If that fucker goes, so do you, and when you're careening down a hill at fifty miles per hour with bad brakes and crippling horror, you think a lot about your back lug. You wonder how well you screwed it back on after replacing your tire. You begin to feel serious Doubt about it. As the wind screams in your ears and numbs your lips and bites at your eyes, you think a lot about that goddamned back lug, and the influence of its stability on your continued existence. One slip out of place, and you'll flip end over end down the roughly paved Humboldt County highway. Ugly, bloody death.
Yes. Just like on Everest.
Just like the corner down the street.
Tears streaming down our face, the world whizzing by, and us thinking, did I tie that fucker down. Oh yeah. I know that feeling.
Nicely written, there. I sense the spirit of Hunter.
__________________ Time is still the infinite jest.
I have an uncanny tendency to channel dead writers from time to time; I wish the Doc wasn't amongst their ranks. That was the Third Worst Day of My Life.
I have an uncanny tendency to channel dead writers from time to time; I wish the Doc wasn't amongst their ranks. That was the Third Worst Day of My Life.
Well. I could sort of see it coming.
He was 67. That's a good life.
I still get shivers from time to time.
And I miss the missives dispatched from Owl Farm.
Anyway, good writing.
Could I venture to guess that the first couple were Kurt Cobain, and, oh, I'll go with Kurt Vonnegut Jr. The Kurts.
I'm sure I'm way off, but...
__________________ Time is still the infinite jest.
No... the first two were far more disturbing than all that, and very personal... I'll not go into it here. Maybe I won't go into it at all. I can tell you that the best day of my life was when I was drifting around Northern California and I suddenly realized that I was Happy.
RE Old enough: I suppose when you're close enough to seventy, you probably know well enough if you want to go on living or not. It's starting to feel like he's actually gone, though. It didn't for a long time. I kept expecting a "Hoho! Just kidding!" reveal that simply never came. That wild energy and weirdness has finally begun to dissipate. Who tends the light at the end of the tunnel now?
No... the first two were far more disturbing than all that, and very personal... I'll not go into it here. Maybe I won't go into it at all. I can tell you that the best day of my life was when I was drifting around Northern California and I suddenly realized that I was Happy.
RE Old enough: I suppose when you're close enough to seventy, you probably know well enough if you want to go on living or not. It's starting to feel like he's actually gone, though. It didn't for a long time. I kept expecting a "Hoho! Just kidding!" reveal that simply never came. That wild energy and weirdness has finally begun to dissipate. Who tends the light at the end of the tunnel now?
Those doomed to think that they can get 'it' for 5 bucks a hit, well, they're fucked right there.
And the wild energy and weirdness will rebound because Hunter's words and stories are still with us. Who cares who tends the big light, as long as I can still feel the pull of the great magnet.
By the way, last Halloween, I went out as Hunter. Where the buffalo roam, fear and loathing, and all that. It was fantastic. I stomped on the terra that night. I was happy.
__________________ Time is still the infinite jest.
It seems to be particularly unfettered this evening.
I was just pondering the novel, ' Into the Wild.'
The story earlier seems to have opened up those certain synapses.
I got to thinking about Chris McCandless. Sean Penn. And back to Hunter, all listening to Stinkfist. About letting it all go, and spiralling out.
And how some nights are just better than others.
Precariously held together by some invisible and omnipotent web far beyond my feeble comprehension. And I don't mind.
A Lateralus state of mind. Yes.
__________________ Time is still the infinite jest.
