All right, I know I should blame it all on reading Sutin's Phil Dick bio, or today's date, or my recent on and off ocular pain (which only seems to occur at work, probably due to too much time in front of monitors and psychosomatic shit caused by across-the-board loathing of my job), or drinking (even though I'm not drunk, or close to it, right now), or the roaches that use my driveway as a highway and my half-assed compost pile as a feeding ground, or the dozen flies I killed (by the way, Dave [roommate Dave, not myself in the third person], I noticed that during the day they like to buzz their way inside when people come in or go out, which might explain things) tonight, or the way I could see the blinking red light atop the radio/tv/whatever tower south of here through the trees, or my usual paranoia/hatred/fear of cops even when I'm on my own property doing exactly nothing wrong, or my laptop's refusal to read my USB keychain drive and demand that I format it, or who the fuck knows what, but tonight (since getting off work especially) has been one fucking bizarre and portentious cluster of hours.
This happens roughly once a year, in one form or another. Usually it's not as, well, fucking symbolic and all-encompassing as this feels, which makes me wonder if this particular handful of somewhat stressful but fascinating and dynamic hours is at all like the first-steps-towards-breakdown I had in 2002 and 2003. I don't think it is, because right now I'm aware of my mind working in two ways simultaneously whenever I fixate on or freak out about something (e.g. "dude, that roach is twitching its left antenna exclusively"; "I can probably see that light blinking even if I close my eyes"; "motherfuck, I hope I never see anything resembling God"; "motherfuck, if I never see God my life is ruined"; "why the hell is Blogger doing weird formatting to this paragraph as I type"; etc. etc.), namely:
Smith, you're legitimately freakin' the fuck out;
and
Smith, you dumb son of a bitch, you're letting yourself freak the fuck out for whatever reason, and your foundation of philosophical/theological/existential/ontological doubt isn't gonna let you get away with thinking you're going through some kind of revelatory experience.
Fuck it! I'm gonna roll with whatever this is and try to make the most out of it- which may be nothing at all, though I suspect that as soon as I'm done typing this sentence I'll go give Tim his antibiotics and then head straight to Unheimlich and pound away for a while.
Not true. First I want to bid everyone a good night/morning/day and remind y'all not that today is the National Day of Slayer, and that despite outbursts like this, I'm neither mentally unstable nor desire to be. So: good night/morning/day, and go blast Slayer in celebration of what's probably the 18th or 19th 6.6.06 since John's Revelation.
P.S. Why am I telling any of you this?
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