“Actual happiness always looks pretty squalid in comparison with the over-compensations of misery.” ~ Aldous Huxley
Maybe there is too much to write about today. But that is only a speculation at a point and place in time where a sense of mystery would indeed suffice. An actual fact, one that would usually haunt me but not today, is that a strong bout with tinnitus is upon me this morning, and it is making it hard to hear my own thoughts. I am of the belief that some of my thoughts are not my own, and if that is true my ability to distinguish between my own and what Castaneda called a “foreign installation” serves to make these thoughts all one. That is where I actually am at the moment, all one in thought and all ears within some rampant cosmic oscillator. I am feeling weird so I don’t really mind writing in a somewhat weird manner. The truth of it is that my major train of thought this morning, stifled though it is like a some muffed out dream, indicates that an overload of Right Wing destroyer myth enforcer information may have reached the tipping point. There is an undercurrent of not so stifled optimism running silent, running deep, and I’ll be danged if I don’t see it as a welcomed feeling. I’m not up to delving in to Chaos theory in any explanatory way, but despite all of my efforts at disbelief I have been sensing a rising coherence within the Right Wing warriors’ march into infamy. This humming numbing coherence is akin to the coherence that takes the boot stomping homogeneity of a platoon of soldiers who march in lock-step across a bridge and rattle the bolts and connectors loose by the very vibrations born of their march of enforced belonging. But I will not expand on this concept, not further, not today, except to say that enforced coherence is not the same critter as naturally manifesting coherence. Ouch. I just hurt my brain with that thought. Alas, my next four days of high-pressure retail performance are knocking at my door, calling me forth into the world outside my inner sanitary, which is within these walls. I’d admittedly prefer to stay home with the cat. But as I stride through this holiday weekend, performing my gainful employment retail cashier thingy, I will be accompanied by a new dream of mine: that of taking an overnight holiday up yonder, across the northern border, at Pagosa Springs, at the spa, hot springs resort there. You know, hang out in the warm water, smoke some legal weed, and osmosis-ify a shirt load of toxins. My therapist highly (doh!) recommends it, although I came up with the dream. I almost balked at the idea of spending around $400 for a night out of town, but I am living a life, pretty much alone in the world, and I haven’t been out of town for much too long a time.. The enticement hovers over me like a phoenix.
Peace out, y’all. goof gloriously.