Afflatus on a red red minibus full of mindplay:: 3:12am 30.11.05
The breath of the morning, I keep forgetting.The smell of the warm summer air.
"I would prefer not to."
Down with girls. It seems like they walk through life tinged with Pink Floyd and rock and roll and I seem to be stuck with the Beach Boys and other absurdities. I have given up on them many times before and I shall keep doing so. Dramatic statements with no actions to back them up are kind of my thing. I seek out advice from others but all they give me are suggestions of tugboats and arson. There is only one Dr. Love, but she is far away and lovingly foolish.
I wish I could run marathons. They seem to be therapeutic. Tearing up my insides and destroying my myosin is equivalent to several gallons of ambrosia. The gold kind. However I have settled for lazy bicycling in a dusty, damp gym, while everyone glances at the girl with the tight pants and bouncy hair. Her name is Ynes. No more self-pity. It’s time for dreams and hopes that make me laugh.
Let’s be neurosurgeons. I can operate on you and you on me. Tweak the frontal lobes and trim the temporal ones. Enhance creativity and inhibit inhibitions. We can dream up new colours every night. Green-purple salsa, blue-black tango, scented pink, literate rainbow. Colours that dance without partners, colours that smell and colours that write lymerics. However, you will have to be patient with me for you shall be much better than I.
Let’s travel the world seeking carnivals. Ferris wheels in
It hasn’t snowed yet. Fuck global warming. Rain makes my hair curly and mat. Snow makes my soul straighten and shine.
On a serious note. My brother is spiraling into paranoia and it has me startled and troubled. He has seen doctors and receives prescriptions but he cannot take them because they would ruin him. University seems not be for him, even though he is the definition of a bourgeois intellectual. Please send wisdom. I shall see your dreams in mine, and look forward to singing along even though the words are above and beyond my simple subconscious.
Sincerement and drunkenly
David Skogstad-Scotch-Lincoln-Churchill Stubbs
My dear David,
There are Djinns swirling and swarming around me demanding decisions when all I manage to spit out are indecisions.
I see you have once again given up on girls. But curves and short skirts will soon lull you back, dull your senses and suck the logic out of you. It’s one of the only certainties we’ll obtain from our brief existences. This, time and death. Down with certainties.
But if you’re quoting Pink Floyd for love advice, you’re heading down into some damned deep dark crater of the moon.
Hear for yourself: One of these days, I'm going to cut you into little pieces.
You are silly to listen to me. I relinquish my role as Dr. Love since all I have done was build rules on lies and fear. All I dare to opt for are lovers I don’t have to love, half-written characters, the Cyranos without the nose, the Twains without the wit. All that remains of the past are inches of a radiohead crush, ounces of a heroin addict and sprinkles of an (failed) artist to be. And I’m at it again, trying to create connections through differences like the foolish fool that I am. (And we all know I am moon-dust compared to King Lear’s fool). When bitter girls named Nazlee point out the realistic failure of such enterprise, I get infuriated and I throw in my rebuttal but after many hours of Morpheus, I can only realize the idiocy of giving wind some kind of solidity. Meanwhile, I will still touch pores as it dulls the neurons; the endless inquisitions and indecisions.
You are crazy. You and your silly neurosurgeon dream. If I put myself through any more years of schooling, I will cut myself into little pieces. It’s ludicrous how institutions geared towards learning make me hate learning so much when my lifelong passion is precisely learning. But such is life. Now don’t I sound like a middle aged fool that has plateau-ed like a bacteria culture? Such is life. Soon I will reach senescence and make even more nerdy science jokes. Except, then, I won’t realize I do. Ah, quelle vie…
I would love to travel the world again--- to sprinkle poetic genius in the air that I breathe and the light that I see. But the last true words I absorbed were Borges’, and that was a month ago. Since then, it’s been all about biochemical pathways, immunological assays, retroviral vector design and 3-D representations of MHC class I protein molecules. I still fondle words once in a while, but not enough to keep me composed and to shield off the intensely competitive atmosphere of my program. I believe I terrorize people with an overabundance of energy and my sporadic ramblings on all and nothing. But I have a dream that the weirdness is contagious. Soon, the whole world will be hyper, non-sensical and dance naked to 80’s LP records.
It’s starting to look a lot like Christmas here in
Find yourself three wise men and a virgin.
The words are not flowing today my friend. And I realize they haven’t been in quite a while. The blog is drying, the mind is trying, but to no avail. I hope your brother feels better. Bourgeois intellectuals need time to recharge. How do I know that one. Beats me and a handful of sarcasm.
The ever so Ynès Jenny
This land like a mirror turns you inward
And you become a forest in furtive lake;
The dark pines of your mind reach downward,
You dream in the green of your time,
Your memory is a row of sinking pines.
Explorer, you tell yourself this is not what you came for
Although it is good here, and green;
You had meant to move with a kind of largeness,
You had planned a heavy grace, an anguished dream.
But the dark pines of your mind dip deeper
And you are sinking, sinking, sleeper
In an elementary world;
There is something down there and you want it told.
Dark Pines Under Water- Gwendolyn MacEwen