First trickle of a stream of consciousness blog

Dear reader: the first in a series of entries, perhaps to be concluded at the end of this one, of random thinking accompanied by the chaotic distraction of live Led Zeppelin music. I’m pretty hungover, so my face is white and puffy. I’ve moved from the frightened part of the hangover, where I think I’m going to be swallowed by earthquake, to the jittery part of the hangover, where I keep rubbing my teeth together for good luck. The physical effects are terrible. I’m reading a biography of Jim Morrison that is pretty (insert swear word) good, and having to read on and on about how fat he became is downright inspiring. What is it about academia that requires love handles of the academic? What is it about the vanilla Oreos which seem to go so well with beer, and with vodka wearing a sheer cranberry body stocking and shaking it inside a yellow Solo cup — with love handles of its own, for an extra 8¢ per cup? I had more of my swell, Hunt for the Blood Orchid pseudo-nightmares about being covered in leeches. They aren’t real nightmares, though, because in a very tedious fashion I just keep picking the darn things off me, trying to get clear. I checked out a couple of nice-looking collections of Beat poetry and a novel, all by a chap named Michael McClure who used to hang out with the Lizard King and try to write screenplays with him. I think the fact that I spent most of today reading about Morrison and the Doors is the first sign of a floodtide of reading. Possibly even a return to the old infatuation with school. Have to consider the baptism by fire: everything that stokes the head, nothing that eats the liver, light meals, long solitude, burning right up into a stratosphere, deprived of all comforts, starved of boredom, coming down like a broke junkie off the painful high of distraction. Oh, dear God. I have to switch from secondhand accounts of the Doors to something heavy like Keats or this blog is really going to suffer. And you, the reader, are going to experience existential nausea caused by ineffective words. And I am going to write an ecstasy of apologies. Starting tomorrow. Stream of consciousness, apology: “I’m sorry” as the grounding chord, like those broken-open structures of the songs in Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde. Just recovering from singing Steppenwolf last night. Birthday karaoke. Not my birthday. Singing “Born to be Wild,” I felt like a wind was blowing through me at incredible speeds.

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