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The Three-Hour Tour

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Apr. 18th, 2011 | 06:58 pm

I wrote some seriously fucked-up shit over the last few years. Much of it is bad, yes.

If you're clicking through my lj-cuts and wondering why I'm sharing such poop, it's because I've been keeping this journal for almost ten years, and more importantly I was keeping it back when my shit was as together as I can expect it to ever be. There's a larger picture here, a rise and fall in psychic tide that might tell me what ominous moon nearly(?) made a lunatic out of me...it's the only consistent record I have, a shame I wasn't posting more in it than I was.

(It was the fights...)


I don't think about these things, except for in this place, this journal. All the more reason to, I think.

I've taken to posting in this thing in the bathroom, partially because I can smoke under the vent fan. It's fitting somehow; many, many of my recent nightmares have taken place in bathrooms. They're a place where writing ought to happen: where the primitive is dispensed with by the civilized. The only place in most houses where water stands in a pool, has a presence.

Many of the nightmares I had occurred in bathrooms where the plumbing was clogged or blocked: in one I struggled to find somewhere to take a shower, amid rows of grimy water-stalls caked with filth: when I finally found a usably clean bathroom, it turned out to have a live rat and a horse's head in it, and the piping was all exposed.

In some dreams, like that one, toilets were overflowing: the sense of backed-up dirtiness and foulness was everywhere. I often sought in vain for showers (and later on, the ocean).

(It was the fights...)

And what's to stop them now, aside from my strained acquiescence?

More later...

Show him how we do it: bring the bastard in.
Escape from a trajectory is not escape from sin.
Turning from the battlefield before the land is won
Is not becoming sacrifice: come now, we'll have some fun.


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