Actuality

Jeres is taking me to see the Bloodhound Gang tomorrow. Well, tonight. I'll post this in the morning, as I have no internet here in this house I am supposed to call a home. But anyway. Luke hates on the Bloodhound Gang. I suppose Luke, a man of words if ever I met one, fails to see the poetry in their superficially stoopid veneer. But Farting With A Walkman On speaks to me just like Morrissey did when I was 14. The Lapdance Is So Much Better When The Stripper Is Crying sums up grotesquely, mournfully, and oh so bitter-sweetly, a state of being that is a home to more men than Nick Cave will ever know or, in actuality, know of. Jimmy Pop is a poet, in that punning, surface gouging way that Jimbob in his Carter days was, but on a somehow larger, more global level. Jimmy Pop gets it. I don't. I think I do, then I forget, and am tricked, and wowed, and awed, and confused, and fumblish, and scared - even though I know there is no need to be, even though I know the repercussions will likely, even at worst, be better than the ugly regretful hollow that is otherwise. But that is because I am a SPAZ, even if I am sometimes prone to bizarre and incredulous bouts of opiate serenity, serious handsomeness, and childlike clarity.

Usually I stick to my code, which used to be Just Get On With It, and is more lately the revised, but essentially similar, Don't Think - Feel... But that sometimes gets me in trouble, in a kind of way I don't need anymore... in a way the fourteen year old me, listening to Morrissey and Ice Cube and tearing up his arms with penknives, thought he'd be way beyond in a decade's time.

I need a new code, perhaps - something between, and a little beyond, those two I mentioned. I need to recognise - nay, act upon, what I have learned, and I now know. I need to sever these tethers of which I speak in rhyming verse - fully - and transcend. I used to think this was something someone else might help me achieve, but that never happened. Now I feel perhaps that I was wrong, and I must do this alone.