Utterly exhausted in body, mind, and spirit. I’m running on reserve fuels. Too much politics, social media, and anxiety about the future. I need to spend a week alone in the Tibetan mountains.
Or continue reading about them, which I’m about to do.
This afternoon as I was reading the second —and wonderful — book to The Ultimate Hitchhiker’s Guide to The Galaxy series my brother was watching some countdown to what I can only assume was another collection of top songs from this past decade.
In my reading the two main characters encounter a group of advertising agents, phone sanitizers, hairdressers, and the like, who are all refugees from their home planet (so to speak). It so happens that they’ve inhabited a planet similar to Earth and are burdened with the responsibility of evolving into mankind as we recognize it today. That said, they’re all hilariously incompetent and stupid. In the next room I could hear what sounded like some credible pop-star rapper offering an explanation as to what “getting low” meant, as if the audience (here, my 17 year old brother) wasn’t capable of understanding on their own.
What played next was, I think, a Nickleback song, and two or three other hip hop hits.
“A person who thinks all the time has nothing to think about except thoughts, so he loses touch with reality and lives in a world of illusions.” — Alan Watts
I’m working on a series of 50 new epigram collages, have finished 40 of them. After writing the epigram in this collage I began trying to assess the number of my illusions. For example, I think that I’m an artist and a philosopher, there’s two right off. And except for when I’m vegging out in front of the TV or drink too much, I am thinking all the time, and therefore a denizen of Alan Watts’ world of illusions. But perhaps this realization is a trapdoor back into reality. — Michael Lipsey
Does anyone remember myspace’s pc4pc?
Boy was that obnoxious.
Need medication for:
- Terrible proofreading
- The decision between being slightly depressed, slightly cheerful
- Proneness to running around the house screaming “Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuut!” (French for goal) for no particular reason
- Excessive sweating from the hands
- Hypochondria by virtue of being nervous about being a hypochondriac
- Being anxious as a Pomeranian
- Unexplainable and random fits of excitement
One of my least favorite things to do is have I-have-it-worse-than-you-do competitions where nobody wins. (Games are held usually in my head between the warring states of my consciousness). I don’t have time for them. I’m too busy welcoming that humid breath of summer that wafts in through my window fan.
Besides, I seem to have temporarily forgotten about Andrew Bird, and now I’ve remembered how good his music is.
I wish I had the stones to delete my facebook.
I wish I had the stones to do a lot of things.
Ok, here’s the final link of the new blog. Same thing, different account, only this time I can follow you and organize it differently.
The poetry page on this blog will cease to exist as of right now.
