I did another song.
Pretty sure most people would find it WAY too harsh.
It’s not just a joke, what I say in the end. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Anyhow, here’s the vid.
I think it has something to do with :
- Not having the usual social limitations in my head that would keep most normal people from even thinking of something like what I wrote up there.
- Having so much latent bitterness and rage that I don’t normally have any way to express so it comes out, predictably enough, in my words.
- The generally high level of fucked up-ness in the world right now raising the social temperature so high that crazy fucks like me are ready to snap
And probably other stuff too.
I suppose the most extreme art often comes from repressed people like me. Edgar Allen Poe was a milquetoast fop but in his words he was a dark overlord and master. Nietzsche was a stooped over nearly blind man who, as he put it, “wrote words of fire and blood across the sky”.
And Marat wrote pamphlets and letters that stoked the fires of the French revolution while stuck in his bathtub because of a debilitating skin condition.
So maybe there’s something to this idea that it’s us feebs and cripples with massive unresolved issues that set the world on fire with art.
I’ve often said that to be a great artist, no matter the medium, there has to be something drastically wrong with you that keeps you from expressing yourself and your emotions via the more normal social means.
Instead you lock yourself in your garrett and slave away at your painting or sculpture or novel or whatever alone and pour your emotions into that and then express them by showing people your work.
So it’s kind of like expressing yourself a whole bunch all at once.
To me, this is why great art is not just made, it’s forged. You need to have a touch of the fires of creation in you, that spark that keeps your pilot light lit and provides the energy to break down the art you experience into its constituent elements so that you can forge something entirely new from them.
At least that’s how it works for me.
I honestly can’t imagine making art in a completely calm, contemplative state. I need some madness flowing before I can create.
It might be buried deep within the bowels of my mind and I might seem more or less calm and composed on the surface, but somewhere in the works you will find a cackling madman eager to set the world ablaze with the power of his words.
Which is a real possibility for me.
I know it is. I know that if I was French and unrestrained like Marat, I could enflame people and unleash all kinds of havoc in the world.
And I am holding space for that as an option. Things get bad enough I might just say “fuck it” and throw my torch onto the kindling before me.
Lots of fire imagery today, huh?
But for now, I am willing to play a more measured and strategic game where I make my moves with a specific goal in mind : stealing all of Trump’s supporters.
Give them someone better to follow and they will flock to this new superior shepherd. Even his diehard supporters like Joe Rogan and Marjorie Taylor Greene are starting to doubt him now and the time is right for the young lions to kill the old one so they can take their place and show their superior right to rule.
So, ya know…. get on that.
More after the break.
The rough road continues
Took a nap before supper. Woke up around 7:45 pm. Drowsed in bed a while then the alarm went off at 8 pm so I sat up and turned it off.
And then came the return of our old buddy, me sitting on the edge of the bed staring off into space for an interminable period of time in a kind of mental limbo.
Why? I dunno. It’s like I enter a kind of torpor where my mind is still functioning just fine but somehow the part of me that gets the body moving just ain’t online.
I know during these periods that I don’t want to move. What I want to do is go back to sleep. Hit the snooze alarm on life and start over later.
Which is fine. Normal, even. But the feeling of deep lassitude is not. Neither is the fact that it’s going to take me some amount of time to get over it.
It could be psychological. Perhaps my unconscious mind is playing psychosomatic tricks on me to get me to stay in bed and not face the world yet.
That would track with the fact that I am doing that exercise thing at the senior center tomorrow and I really don’t want to do that.
But I am gonna, god and Xanax willing. I have to at least try it once, if for no other reason than to test expanding my social boundaries.
It might be too much too fast. It might turn out to not be for me. I’ve heard how workers talk to old people in these homes and I am not sure how much of that I could take.
I’m not saying that the workers are doing anything wrong, but oy.
I am actually thinking of taking my first Xanax tonight so that I can reduce my anxiety load enough to sleep.
Oh, right, the end of the tale : once I actually managed to get up, the lassitude remained with me. All the time I Was making my supper, I felt very heavy, like my muscles were just hanging off my body, and this worries me a great deal.
It’s not the first time that has happened in the last couple of months. And I cannot help but recall that it was not being able to stand after waking up that landed me in the hospital for a couple of weeks three years ago, and that’s when my journey as a disabled person truly began.
Boy I hope I’m not getting worse. 🙁 Life is rough enough with me needing the walker to get around, if I end up in Stephen Hawking mode on an electric wheelchair than I don’t think I could take it.
Maybe then I could convince the medical world to keep looking until they actually find whatever the fuck is wrong with me.
Or maybe they’d just think I’m a typical fat guy being lazy.
Yeah, because this shit makes me life SO MUCH EASIER.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.