Messages from Lalaland: Fourteen for fourteen.

Status
Not open for further replies.
Associate
Joined
14 Feb 2006
Posts
547
Location
Leeds, W Yorks.
I had one of those nights tonight. My back felt ill at ease with the bed, and my mind was unhappy with how incomplete my scrawls were. I knew that somewhere in the pit of my stomach, and I have the sinking feeling that I won't get much sleep until I'm happy, if that is going to happen. Tonight, I am a writer gripped with the insatiable, fidgety madness of rolling over in bed and walking to my desk to write down a new perspective that could put our way of thinking ahead five thousand years. I haven't found it yet, but I am trying. Maybe this whole concept will fail merely because not enough people read what I'm writing, but I'm okay with that for now. All this is worth losing sleep over, it's worth writing losers over. So, tonight, I shall discard no ideas. I will write about it all, you'll see.

My keys dangle, angling sideways from the a hook in the ceiling that is meant to hold a window up. My walls are high and exuding the stench of smoke. That might be bad news for the people that live under the roof they support. They have no room for passing out, unless the sleep standing (my guess is that they do). My room is a smoky haze, and I can see gravity bending through it, much like you can cup and swirl smoke around with the palm of your hand. My sixty year old mechanics professor would say over a joint, "Robi, the room is shearing. Why?"

And I'd reply with a, "Who cares, it just is."

I would suppose that doesn't make me much of an emergent Engineer, but really, life isn't a machine you have to build or fix. It just is. Whether you overanalyze it to death or not, things will be. Meaning is proferred to us everywhere, and we lap it up like the dogs we are.

Pencils are for paper, my fingers for this typewriter, and these words, for some unfortunate crackpot who will try to milk meaning from a cow that is dry from the truth. The truth is that there is no meaning where there should be milk. You drink milk (with sugar or honey). You could even use it to make cheese, but can't make an aeroplane out of lactose, y'know. Besides, I might have milked myself dry of meaning already, like most fledgling adults do. I'll never milk myself dry of things to write about though. I'm building a bicep from doing it so often.

What happened when we were young?
Well, we're not young anymore,
even when we're definitely not old.


I'm too young for a painless death, and I'm too old for a pacifier. Where must I go to find moisture and warmth?

Most of my friends would tell me to find it in the slick love-pit of a beautiful woman. They'd tell me to use a condom, and they'd tell me to ditch the chick after. Yeah, they're definitely chauvinists (and as uncomfortable with commitment as the Wicked Witch of the West would be at the beach), but I have to admit, there is a strange pleasure I'd find with filling a woman's eyes with tears (or semen).

Maybe I could find it in Jamaica, with a fat blunt and the ocean sun hidden by a margarita.

I'm afraid of drowning in a woman,
I might disentangle my knots, and melt,
I'm afraid of painful throats, so woman,
can you stick your tongue inside me,
and keep me safe forever ?


Someone told me today that you can have sex with a pregnant woman until her second trimester. After that, a man with even an average sized penis risks putting holes in his baby's head. Or if it is the postman, it's just a baby. The postman should still care. We shouldn't kill babies as civilized human beings, but we can theorize about the rhetoric.

Now, the question is, why the hell would I want to have sex with a pregnant woman when I can find someone whose belly doesn't look like Rosie O' Donnell's bosom? It's right up there on things not to do, sitting uneasily beside kissing other men and sleeping with cousins, even though some people do that in this country. When I get married, I might just have a nine month affair to coincide nicely with a nine month pregnancy. However, according to popular sentiment, my wife will be closed business for quite a bit longer. I think I'm man enough to give her that grace period. After that, it's consensual sex whether she likes it or not. Don't think of it as rape. Think of it as surprise sex.

Yes, I know. I'm a sick m********. I didn't know that for a while, though, because you can't be sick when you're always high. And I've been high a while. You are a better person than I am, but I don't know if you were. Should you still be my role model? I wish I knew more about such things, and everything else while I'm at it. Something, something. I'm always something. Everyone's always something. Even the ones that claim to have nothing. It doesn't matter what is in your hands, or your chest. Euphoric or suicidal, it comes down to the same thing, that we're not nothing. Apathy is for liars, and wishful thinkers. I always care about something, even when I'd like not to. Most of the time, I care about political incorrectness and rest. But at times this high, I care about everything.

I want my wife to be someone I could plan robberies with. She'd inspire my writing in bed, but we'd have to balance the sex out with the felonies to keep the relationship healthy. I don't know which would be more exciting. My roommate thinks that the keg of beer we're about to buy is. I'll give him that. I will.

Despite how entertaining a keg is, a bottle of booze is a landmine that flowers in an orgasm of thin blood and lost memories. You don't get back either, much like Pvt. Piles won't ever get all the brain matter he lost. He won't get the bullet back either, for worldly possessions (even the bullet that killed him) are no use to a dead man. I might not be dead, but where is my salt-shaker, and where the hell is my legendary sombrero?

I'll send for Poirot, "Ho! Poirot! I got me a mystery!" Find a superhero his sombrero. Do your job, for Christ's sake. I wonder if narcotic agents have the power to turn hair into marijuana. They could spot all the potheads merely by how bald someone is. Brilliant! That's one excellent way for some funhating detectives to do their job well.

This is where I whirled my pencil around for several minutes, considering which idea to to echo for. Needless to say, it zipped out of my hands, and now I can't find it. I'm still narrowing down elusive concepts that should be memorable, but are forgotten in seconds. Damn you, Mary Jane, damn you to hell!

I'll tell you what, though. Weed makes an excellent contribution to a Euchre game. Euchre is beautiful, and has several facets to it that you have to master to be a useful partner. That's one thing about Euchre that is even better. It's a team sport. Depend on the guy sitting across the table from you, giving you sly smiles and mean scowls. Euchre is especially poignant when the points system awards you four points to walk the plank alone, and succesfully.

Pity life isn't a card game. We can gear and set ourselves up for wins, but circumstances always find a way to swap out the cards in your hand before you can play them. Sneaky *******. The card game is not easy to learn, however, especially not when a beginner is playing with men who have played all their life. I couldn't stake my life as a bet, and even if I did, I wouldn't have the final laugh.

This entire piece is utter chaos, I can tell. Even from my first draft, where I should be able to percieve nothing. I wrote all this down on two pieces of paper, that are absolutely covered in cat scratch. I tried to organize my thoughts, but there is no taming a stoned brain. I tried to divide my thoughts wih long, squiggly lines between seperate ideas, but the lines are warped and the ideas are everywhere, much like the splatter of ink (or a paintball).

To truly understand the true complexity of this expulsion of brain matter, I'd have to brainstorm on a ball, with a dark permanent marker. Y'see, I did this on two sides of the piece of paper, rather than all six. I can't write small enough for the sides, but I hear that some Japanese companies can. To witness the entirety of this vision, you'd need x-ray glasses to read both sides of the page. Minds are multidimensional, and all this varied scribble on this page (in every blank space available) is multidimensional. Humans, however, only appear three-dimensional to each other, and as three-dimensional readers, can not play multidimensional thought. Some people come close, with body language. This, however, is different. Everything you need to comprehend its scope is within these pages. I've held nothing back, and I have attempted to paint a surreal picture while spraying the page with none of that conceptual discrimination.

Imagine a race of sentient beings that lived in the equation driven world of fractals and geometric progressions. It would be like a man living in the world you see when you close your eyes tight and put pressure on them with your palm. It's another world, within your grasp, if you could only understant what it meant. It might be real, as real as the world we see around us now. Life for these beings would be very different from the average life of a human.

I still think they would come to the same moral conclusions as we have, despite wildly different surroundings. The meaning of life, if you will, is that chaos will drive what seem like disparate coincidences to perfection. Someone's perfection. Think of a random number. I know you chose a number, but is there a formula to what you randomly thought of? Mathematicians will say yes, that everything can be explained in math. But not this one, I think. Maybe God let us have this one for some tar in our eyes, a problem without a solution. Chaos pushes the entire universe toward godliness, with the drug-haze, or without.

To the reader: I apologise for this form. It is long and jangled in staccato. There is an explanation, though. I write of the meaning of life, which is inherently meaningless because there is nothing meaningful to say about the meaning of life. You divine personal meaning merely by convincing yourself that your perceptions add up to some formulaic mantra. The power of suggestion is a powerful thing.
 
Last edited:
Status
Not open for further replies.
Back
Top Bottom