A journal Entry in Ben Lomond, Ca
A cup of organic Venezuelan, wild cherry bark extract, Chuan Xin and more settles my stomach of breakfast. After filling up with eggs, bacon, toast, & vanilla bread with cream cheese I enjoyed the mountain breezes and panoramic spectacle
which lies before me. David, my patron and roommate stopped by Terrapin station earlier, and I hope to go with him later in order to get a picture of it's candles and signs.
A fine mist spreads across the range, and sunlight struggles through the clouds. While not as euphorically prismatic as other days, I am still bountifully inspired by these times.
Massive redwoods stretch across the mountains and the lingering scent of lavendar wafts in the dew.
Later: A Whiskey and Bud, the rain scatters it's deluge outside. I am sitting at Henflings, the local blues tavern, watching the rabble as they find themselves given to eascapisms. The Doors blared outside the porch, inside a wooden exit where the congregation of self medication commenced. I've heard that the band intends a resurrection, with it's namesake the Doors. Robby is admantly against it.
A man across from me tells of a presumptuous sort, one who was a happy drunk, with two black eyes as reward. One says "You've got a line down your leg" another laughs "Beat the piss out of him." Another one, silver haired and bleary eyed says to me "You don't need to take notes" with a smile on his face.
The veneer shattered, the cover is blown, I am a thief of words, a veritable Robin Hood of literary devices. My lips are numb with whiskey, belly warm with beer, and I realise they want people to buy Scotch in testament to the blues. I take a shooter, sprinkle some solt, lights flash and glare from the television, demanding my attention and offering reprieve from a homosexual leer that assails me across the way.
I jam the Jukebox, B.B. King reminds me of New York City, the Doors of L.A., Sheryl Crow brings soft reminiscence of San Diego. Someone spits with the most vulgar of empathies and my musing is broken.
The Waitress accused me of being in a band, with my silk clothes and the hopes of tipping. She waters down the drinks, I can tell, though offended when I ask her about it. Though illegal, I'm sure it occurs all abouts, to keep drivers less than incapacitated. I paid 30$ for drinks, got less than falling down, gut heaving, and altogether obnoxious drunk, thus there's no other way to explain it.
Work: I was hoping to get drunk enough to miss work, but failed horribly. now I tend to the store on no sleep, with a walking hangover and hopes to get through the night uneventfully. Of course, I wouldn't really miss it, since my thoughts inevetably angle toward the despairity of conditions within. If I wanted to bust my butt for relatively no money, I would go back to seeling poetry alone.
I see it so clearly now, history is dead as all things manufactured in the spirit of fiction. What contrivances as are bound to the confines of imagination are contained within a crisp and ultimately paper thin portrayl of occurence, happenstance, and motives of madness. Methods of mass destruction spoon fed to the consumeristic cotton candy mentality
system in a plea for elitististic glom gathering.
A walking waking hangover is my condition. Testing the bounds of my endurance is telling in these works, an ongoing experiment in deprivation and indulgence, I feel myself slowly crawling xloser to the American nightmare. I must settle my debts, fly from this place of sublimated madness. Oh, Gods, each day I fall farther from that glorious place of divinity.
Shadows, people in the phantom reaches whisper the song of Tantalus. They exist, in the afirmation that all illusior substance is real by very entertainment of its' will. they whisper to run, far from this place, far from these virtual escapisms which constitute the daze in which we revel insensible in the imagined warmth of our hope and wanting.