Perhaps to the horror of my family and less so, I would hope, those who count themselves as friends; I just read Bukowski's letter to his first patron. I fear I may suffer the same fate, drinking, and more hopefully smoking, as I write until I am fell unto that beast Panopticon.
Which is to say, I fancy myself a wordsmith of the lowest caliber, without funding but with friends and food that I might enjoy the simple pleasure of cooking for large enough groups (wherever two or more are gathered).
Perhaps with a head full of Bullwinkle and Firesign theatre, watching schoolhouse rock, and with a library to be rivaled by Rome or Alexandria, I may suck seed.
Having found my errant razor, I shave off those bits of hair not designated as a beard I would like to listen to as it grows. Under the sink, you fink! I also found my makeup kit, so I might go out wearing enough black to show my mood.
So, broke, and broken, lost mind and listening to the voices in my head as the work of Centennial Peaks Mental Facility to force me back into the light, by never darkening the night, has clearly failed.
I have a blog, and I will whine and moan into the poor house as I want. My plan to become someone else's animator, is frustrated for lack of computing power, but I have the Ipad I received as a tip from rescuing those fine gang members from a handful of cops, whose keen eye saw a drunk at the wheel. I offer no anger to the cops who circled me as I trembling stumbled away from my scholastic activities, and I would hope to continue their giggling as I did that day.
The Joker is wild in my mind as I have found my way back to my favorite hoodie. MC chris can go fuck himself, and I hope he finds more effective and better funded animators. I am content to grow my beard and my ire and I hope I inspire with my humble offerings here, until I can buy some damn typewriting equipment.
I still intend to tell the tale of Naropa and all that transpired to convince me that compassion is just another word to abuse in the service of a dollar. But mayhaps ten years from now when I've made it off continent, and away from Tibet's death throes. Shove that up yer nose!
And now I need nothing more than time to think, and smoke and drink. Where I find my friends may be kind enough to allow me to continue my slow demise.
Conjunction Junction, don't forget your function.
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