Friday, January 13, 2017

Blear and loathing.


"Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run, but no explanation, no mix of words or music memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant." 

Hunter S. Thompson Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.


"I find myself here."

There is no question about it.

"I find myself here."

It suddenly occurred to me the other day.

That that hadn't been me.

It was a relief. 

"I'm sorry, you don't follow?"

Well, I am telling you...

Now...

I was...a relief.

I had been hidden, dissimulated, drowned out in drear.

It was tiresome.

Then I was there, bleary eyed, somewhere near.

"I find myself here."

It was an unfamiliar sound.

Breath as plague.
Breath as swarm.

Breath as resistance.






"I find myself here."

I scrolled.
I scrolled.
I scrolled.

Nothing seemed to connect.

Nothing seemed to connect.

I fall prey to blear and loathing.

"I lose myself there."

I can't go on.

I am lost.

I am nothing.

I am carrion.

Rotting.



It wasn't me.

No, I am telling you.

That wasn't me.

I recognise myself in this distance.

"I find myself here."



Footnotes.

I find myself here on flitting through a post of Terry Elliot.

"Self loathing is a subset of resistance: all honour to Laura Ritchie and Steven Pressfield."

I find it difficult to delve deeply.

He links to an article of Steven Pressfield.

I find it difficult to delve deeply.

I walk with Pressfield an instant.

I get as far as "One."

"So the next time you hear that self-loathing voice in your head, remember two things: One, that voice is not you."

I nod my head in agreement.

Getting to "Two" is a step too far.

"remember two things."

I don't take too kindly to imperatives...

Fuck that Mr Pressfield.

I find something about "original dreams" and "good signs."

Oh what bollocks.

I may be hasty in my judgement.

I find myself here.