I think I must agree with Monsieur Daudet sr. and acquiesce to the dominant force of what I am feeling, acknowledge and agree that there is no language for pain, just maybe some reminisces, Brent Arnold and the Spheres bending a saw in my direction, flurries of adjectives criss-crossing my eyelids closed on the day from my newest nausea or--or god damn some MUSIC IS NOT MEANT FOR PAIN--don't whisper sweet nothing bullshits at me from afar, Mr. Nowhere Nothing Man, some star ensconced in earthly mansions--THAT DOESN'T MAKE YOU LUCIFER.
and yet still that strange power that illusion of WHAT COUNTS I read Alphonse he cannot feel his legs he is wracked with 40 years of disease but he is at Victor Hugo's funeral and he writes, "At Victor Hugo's funeral..." like I would say "At the grocery store..." and it's all mixed up in me, in this topsy-turvy wildly worshipping world. But I would rather go to Victor Hugo's funeral than a Hollywood soiree. Even though that means I'd be dead already.
Just straws to grasp it, since there's so little else...
I don't have a bottle to grasp for today.
That bottle those bottles they're the only solace I have. They take it away for just for such a moment and suddenly I can smile I can do LIFE I can hug someone and let go. Today I am couch-confined, swooning across the confines employed by the circumference of my skull. I find Continental good for this think-spell. I still think the world would have been a more interesting place had Ian Curtis not killed himself, a legacy of more JD rather than birthing NO. But I can't say I blame him. I can't say I don't know what that helplessness feels like. As Jeff Tweedy yells at me, "Why would you want to live in this world?" Good fucking question.
So much in busywork approaching me.
I will lend an aspect of inspiration from Daudet; fragment myself in notes.
Pain has no narrative structure.
No payoff, no underlying meaning.
It just persists.
The only tension, I guess--the only question that remains to be seen: who will last the longer?