Hey kids, there’s a reason sage old folks say shit like “The more I discover the less I know”. Sounds damn near mystical and wise don’t it and/or donut? Ok, I can’t speak for old folks, although I might not make it through today I hardly have a foot in the grave. 53 is the new 45, mostly because we don’t teach math very well anymore, and damn, at 45 you barely have to have your tires rotated. When I say shit like that what I mean is I’ve killed a lot of brain cells and if I want to retain something new something old has to go, and there are song lyrics encroaching like a cancer over everything.
A few years back (a few is the new exact number X) if I saw rustling in your bushes I could probably tell you which bird was doing it, why it was in your bushes, where it nested. Now I’m likely as not to say “You’ve got a bustle in your Hedgerow”. It’s not because I can’t get enough of your love, it’s not even because Michigan water tastes like cherry wine , though, if the river were whiskey and I were a diving duck … It’s because lyrics have ate my memory. It’s uncomfortable to not cite the songs above, it would, however destroy my thesis.
I don’t even know what the hell to call my generation; we’re a little late for baby boomers. Generation Huh, perhaps? I’m not really old, I mean I don’t look that old, my hair isn’t gray, my laugh lines look like laugh lines, but the mush in my skull is certainly settling into dotage.
And yeah, a lot of shit I get my very stylish panties wrinkled over is meaningless, like where is ok for me to hit the Marquis of Queensbury? Is Christ on a Crutch a sect I should be wary not to bite so they don’t bite me, or is it an insult to somebody? Slappaho, real tribe or insult? Ok, so I know the answer to two of those (assuming two is the new one and some change), but you know, how would I use an example of shit I’ve forgot, right? I mean it’s forgotten, somewhere near Salinas I let it slip away, it’s looking for a home and I hope it finds it, lawd en-na, lawd en-na, hmmm hmmm, hmm hmm hmm hmmmm.
Oh, wait, not Salinas, I think I was standing on a corner in Winslow Arizona I had seven women on my mind, then six, then five and then it was just an eagles song. Was it one of the Never-ending Stories that had encroaching darkness that pretty much had to do with kids not reading? I mean there was a story and kid action adventure, but wasn’t the gist of the plot that kids weren’t using enough imagination to keep alive the kind of dull milquetoast sort of creatures that pg-13 dictates kids should imagine? Yes, I’m going to say yes. That dragon looked just like a pit bull only fake and stupid. I mean the shape of the head, the expressiveness of the ears, the big smiley muzzle, had to have been modeled on a pit. Oh. Tangent. Sorry. The darkness of dotage is encroaching on my memories of stuff important and trivial only more like This film is not yet rated but if you’re under twenty one you shouldn’t watch it unless you’ve already gotten someone to buy you a numbing agent of one sort or the other. That and it’s really dirty and messy and there’s probably gross shit in it; If I could remember the gross the shit that’s what this entry would be about. I’ve seen a lot of birth and death and that shit is always gross, all sentiment aside, add in the sentiment and there’s some tears and snot mixed in with the blood.
I don’t think we soften memories because at heart we are all mawkish and gooey, I think we are just prone to spackle in the holes with kind stuff because we can. Life isn’t really a magical journey at all. At best it’s messy; at worst it’s pretty fucking bad, saying life is a bitch and then you die is a gross minimization. It’s also kind of a constant orgasm, but you’re vaguely apologetic because you came when the TV was on or too early or when everyone else was crying or some other shit that matters less when the rockets’ red glare and bombs bursting in air gave proof through the night that way down inside, you-a need-a, Loooo-oooo-vvvee, dun doo dun dun doo, da da da.
Oh yeah, and tedium, toil, drudgery. And bursts of adrenaline, fogs of apathy, flashes of nobility, charity, uselessness and insignificance. And it’s beautiful for patriot dreams that see beyond the years whose alabaster cities gleam undimmed by black betty, bam a lam, black betty black betty, bam a lam, she had a child bam a lam damn thing went wild.
Ok, maybe it’s a blessing remembering the spackle and not the holes. In theory something like this journal should be helpful, in practice there’s a lot of happy horseshit like this. This is not going to be much help when I ask myself “Huh, dude (because I won’t remember my name) wonder what 8-28-2013 was like? Hold on, there isn’t a 28th month. Dude.”
And I’m spent.
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