I was told the large rising moon is an illusion; the
brain is fit for filling in gaps. I have many gaps
in my liquid grey brain – could they be filled by its
three dimensional cameras to instill a bit more
consistency to this well developed post-everything
world we've stumbled and tripped our way into?
I don't think ducks quack any more than I think
rhinoceroses snort; lorikeets flutter in bright
wet green kaleidoscopes of light licking the sweet
nectar from the clear plastic container – oblivious to
the toothy joy bequeathed to the tiny placeholders
of future lawyers and executives. Placeholder
sounds like an objective insincere pejorative insult
to our carpe diem children. It is. Entropy lasts
for a lifetime but disorder is a subjective flash in
the pond. My marrow is at wallowing ease with the
cheap wine siphoned in from the drab cardboard
carton on the floor. I asked for a leather wine-
skin but cardboard is so 21st century. Indeed
death is drunk and angry around the corner waiting
with a silver blade in hand – unsure of time and
space but aware the frayed yarn is nearly spent.
Death is like a dream before the big track meet. It
was only a dream; won't happen to me. Death is
slow and calculating, having its way with us from
the day of our entropied birth. Disorder is subtle in
its clever deception. More more more my bones call
to my cortex for its inebriated cry for more intoxicating
injections of inhibition. Alliteration is a pitfall I
slip into like water running over a small ridge –
falling in inanimate bliss; or an old worn pair of
paint splattered blue jeans. Alcohol is a worm
eating away at my corporeal soul with tiny little
chipmunk teeth, anticipating the day I forget how to
spell 'I'. Certainly a day to be remorseful about.
Worms make me shit and puke. So does mescaline
but one is preferred over the other. My mind interprets
'one more drink' the way my 2-year old interprets
'one more story' – one more then one more then
one more – ad infinitum. It's OK though; just one more…
3.6.09
This blog is (mostly) a near-verbatim transcription of my writing journal. Margins are the same as the journal. These are exercises, not finished products. Other types of writings will most likely emerge at some point.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Journal 16 – Entropy and Something Else
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