the sasquatch blues.

8 March 2011 § Leave a comment

I know of few places on the planet where a zombie sasquatch can walk into a pub, order a beer, and play some blues. It just isn’t generally heard of, though at least one person will disagree.

Want and Need are different things, and sometimes we confuse them: we’ll place needs above wants because it makes more sense to be responsible and plan for tomorrow, however far away it is. We’ll toss wants in the trash bin, or embrace them as luxuries. Everything in moderation. You prioritize one way, I another. Maslow drew up a simple and pretty pyramid outlining the hierarchy of needs, and some people have the foundation to achieve self-actualization, which is coincidentally the sugar and sweet things category in the food pyramid. I hop from one level to another, my foundation a river, because even in the shadow of pyramids, we are not static.

To think of the audacity it takes to tell an autobiography is astounding. Is it a craving for attention? The teacher’s instinct? What’s your story? And why is it worth the time of seven million people reading?

Spend the rest of your life as you. I’ll do it too.

Every time the media says that something’s absolute, give those words a sidelong glance and a minute of your thoughts. Words are not always truth, and truth does not always come in word form.

Day 46: The Bamboozle invaders broke down the barriers on the north side of the fort. We drove a van (fully equipped with a sink and toilet and 8-track player) through the woods to distract them from the mine. Luckily, they’re a bunch of illiterate and destitute children with ADD and fetal alcohol syndrome, so painting a teddy bear blue, filling it with jolly ranchers and playing hide and seek tends to keep them busy for a while. We need more time to sift through the mountain’s DNA. Someone send a couple of playstations and a suitcase full of coke in a care package. The rebels will regret this.

In the shade, Jar of Flies amplified. Ribbed metal tunnel underneath highway. Pacman and his cronies. Snow polishes smiles. The cracks in the ice go down into forever. Break off a piece of that driftwood from the sandbar – it’ll be a weapon of mass destruction in the next life.

Love is not a victory march, says the strat-playing passion inside burning and neon-lit coffeeshops. You have to get used to the sound. It took me a while. Now it’s one of my favorite reference CDs. BWhen we were still getting to know each other, I could only trust it through the NS-10s, but now the world has opened up the green velvet curtains made of dresses and curses, and I’m in awe of the day.

(With the help of a airplane, I’m traveling to New York City in a couple of days. I have bouts of indifference between moments of believing that this trip will mean something, will achieve something, or I will through it, break out and away of one me – shedding skin, so to speak – and find another. I wonder how my preconceptions will fuck with reality. I’m not overly concerned with what they’ve created there, but I’m interested enough to take a look in the mirror, and for a half a second, believe that behind me, I see someone I recognize.

You.)

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