jakemarley

OK, now! I keep on promising myself that Im going to write, but wheres the time? Hell, Im usually lucky to realize there is such a concept, instead of just plodding along hour after hour and day after day in hazy half-thought, only to look at a clock or a calendar in amazement of how much or how little of this precious commodity called time has been spent. To wonder where I have been, to fear what I may have done, never to remember, in that interim irks me. What is it with me? Is my circadian clock damaged? Is a cancer consuming that part of my brain? What difference does it make? The real is as vague as the Surreal all the same.

Tonight is at least a point that I will remember, for a few days, anyway. I have just finished this past quarters coursework and have a week to do nothing but write and plunk away at my piano and maybe get in my car and try to find a few roads around here that I havent traveled down a thousand times before. Luckily, Ive got some cash, so maybe Ill walk up to the pub and drink myself silly on liters of stout. But then the goddamned college kids will bother me and ask me what Im reading. Is it so strange to read in pubs? You dont get that reaction in coffee houses, but the coffee houses in this town dont serve alcohol, and Id prefer to stay home and drink tea. I guess ill-tempered old anarchists like me are supposed to stay indoors anyway.

I heard a good joke on the tube a while back. Unfortunately, it doesnt play well written out, but think it through and you might get it. It goes like this. Why do communists drink herbal tea? Because they believe property is theft.