Dr Livingston I Consume?

Listening to And You Will Know Us By the Trail of Dead while blogging makes for interesting posts.
There is now an institute for the study of personal websites in Philadelphia. Times? Sign? What, no!

I’m such a total prick. I just made that up. Why the fuck would I care about Philadelphia or what’s in it anyway? But you believed me, and that’s what’s important.
LIES SPIRAL. I just made up that I made that up. FUCK.

And now you’ll never know. Nor care.
Unless you’re from the land of the long white cream cheese doodle.

So we arrive again at the crossing of the mighty path, where are you fellowship? Why have you forsaken me? Bereft, I have to fake my journey, all packaged down, grim grime of the baleine oil keeping the wheels of my cart slick. We set out.
Where, friends, are we going? Friends? Oh, that’s right, we’ve done this bit. BEREFT I tell you!
I have enough supplies to last me and my compatriots the length of the crossing and 4 days extra in case the river is high. My grim cargo is weighty in its immaterial moral mass. It is the news that my brother is dead, MY BLOOD, is blood on the face of the stone with which I struck him. “Cain and Abel seem to still be causing trouble,” as one troubling troubadour spurted.
Goodbye mother! I must away! For the road beckons, the gravel calls my name and the horses that will race behind me need to be given a challenge. How archaic this notion.
Where am I going? Oh Where?

Hang on. Good fucking question. Where was I going with that? Those words just sort of seeped out. I don’t know what purpose anything has any more. It’s all like I must do this, I must do that, we fight and we bicker and it turns out I’m not really special, and neither are you. You are not unique. You are not even capable of singularity through rebellion any more. And if you find a way, then you are hardly the first, or if so, you are surely the fool, because it’s your loss, not the universe’s. We trick ourselves like that.

I am writing a novel this year. It’s 2006, fuck off, I’m allowed to. I’ve always wanted to try, I’ve written every other form of everythting, plays, short stories, poems, poetry series, painting series, I don’t see why I should fail… but it might suck. At least I’ll have written one. But I want to be able to show someone special at Christmas the culmination of my year, the fullness of my work, and I don’t want it to suck. I don’t know who that person is, but I hope to find that along the way. It might well be me, or better yet, a publisher. Who is a woman. A Beautiful woman. Who I seduce with my words and is coerced into publishing my novel. And having sex with me a lot. I still wouldn’t be satisfied. I hate that. What a fucking life.
“My chest is a cold acre”

! New Augie March album! Oh It’s so good! Go now! Listen, frolic, buy!
Brave men dare to tread…