shitluck

I spent half the day with Rachel; the other half trying to regain a sense of focus. The fight of my life seems to be a balance of relation with a strong dose of isolation to work this oft-forsaken craft. Meditation--picked it back up today in a moment of ramshackle perception. I find the mind has to ride the crest and trough of melody to release the walls of convention. Coming back into a lucid state now--to find the realization of artistic blockade. A blockade on the subject of relationship. I cannot depict the divine gift I have with my partner accurately. It's the kind of cancer that has me paranoid there will be further paranoia--leading to confusion, leading to long conversations with pretty girls who aren't her, leading me right back into a cycle of infidelity I have rutted myself in for so long.

super bowl sunday

I'm walking laps around my apartment complex. Passing a red-headed girl with a bottle of Corona, a few Johnny Rebs talking adderall, headlights, streetlights, lighters, swirling, combining, but never providing enough bright. I'm still bearing a slight headache from Saturday night, but finally past the nausea.

I spent the day conversing with Rachel's family. The domesticated, scene of warmth was a sharp
contrast to the hell I put Rachel through in the waning hours of night.

I woke at 9 this morning to find her barely covered in a ratty, blanket, no pillow under her ruffled hair, her eyes burnt red, asking if I was okay.

I thought she was overreacting. She shoved water in my face. She said, "Drink it, damnit." Like she'd tried a few thousand times before, and apparently she had,I just didn't remember any of it.

She had saved me around 4. She cleaned off a death mask of filthy vomit by force. I wouldn't comply because I wasn't coherent.

Tonight as I touch each crack of the pavement with my sole, the rest of the human family is pounding beer, suckling the barbeque off their pudgy fingers, and howling at a nation divided between Cheese and Steel.

I'm stuck in the trough of existential contemplation.
Old Mr. Huxley self-medicated with mescaline, said he discovered the "is-ness", and somehow found contentedness in "everything is". That never made much sense to me. Bukowski found god in fucking and drinking beer. Vonnegut said when god created the world, man asked what his purpose was. God was surprised, and he replied, "I don't know. Make one up."