2002-09-23 - 9:32 p.m.
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Now batting, short stop, number 21, Wesley Willis *SPLOOCH*
After playing a game of fishing baseball, out under the stars with only a lantern to light the water, then smoked a cigarette and watched the sky explode slowly with tiny dots of light shooting at us from very very far away. We got away from this place for a while, this house. The ride back and first song on the radio is the Doors. LA Woman. Easily my favortie Doors song out of all of them. Not that I love the Doors so exceptionally, but if its a band I listen to I'd want nothing on the radio that moment but the best they got.
Mr Mojo Risin wailing away, I stuck my head out of the car, swaying my whole body in the cool night beating me at 60 MPH, the moon crashing through the thin clouds above like a boat on a foggy river, charging against the current. I felt very removed from everything, a bad side effect from reading dry British novels all day for a class. Stupid D.H. Lawrence. Stupid depressing story, more love unrequited, more stuck up fake faced English pause. I hope people over there don't act like anything I've read in books about them, especially lately.
I pictured the torment this lady was going through as I read this book, her husband a cripple from the war, unable to make love to her. She has to deal with her passion anyway she can, sleeping with this man her husband wishes to be but thinks completely rotten about. He turns out to be a complete asshole. It's all just terrible.
And at the same time, I could understand some of the views she held. The absolute frailty of the body, the horrible sensation of not being fulfilled with a life spent giving up on happiness to accomodate the one she loved, all the horror of even finding love anywhere. It rang so deep inside that I got tight chested with grief while I read it. Not a sadness, jsut a great depression.
So to be screaming down 374 with awesome music going was great relief from the strain on me put on by just reading a stupid book. The power of words beating the piss out of me.
I think that's why I write period. The knowledge that you can do that to someone, jsut by talking to them. The utter force of mere words, just ideas, just symbols. I want to be able to make myself say goddamn.
I'm quitting smoking tomorrow, possibly for good. Tired of dem butts. Tired of waking up sounding like any second, a lung will shoot out of my throat. Tired of feeling like shit, itchy eyes and scratchy insides. But drinking...WOAH will I not stop.
God bless being 21
BMC
What did you just say? - What's he gonna say next?
