Tag Search Results
Reentry to Civilization
Rythmes flow to the tune of a bass guitar
stars fall, planets rise
cycles begin again.
“It’s all circles and spirals” the acid eaters say.
Mindless platitudes of psychonautical experiences
a journey deep into the human soul.
Bitter winds and bright white snows
float south on the tides, great Siberian wastes
makes way to scrubgrass, highways, and traintracks.
Coming down from exile, fluorescent city lights
mark reentry into civilization,
a Great City, rising above the murky depths
of rivers, past moors and stablehouses,
trams, subway cars (dens of the Low People)
and music played off-key in low-rent apartments.
A new home with old sensibilities:
This place of commerce and opportunity.
My car is Ellis Island, as I disembark
my name is mangled into the chorus of the masses,
anonymous,
and full of hope.Sunday 4:00 am
mood: ...
Sunday morning. 4:00 am. The spring rains are beating down the world outside, and the sound of the fan is ever present. It struggles against the breeze, trying as hard as it can to pull the cool air inside, cool down this ingot of heat and steam.
Full of hot air in here.
Rent lies unpaid, two months late. Bills come like letters from ex girlfriends, their pleas unread. Perhaps someday we can live this bourgeois dream, but not today. Not at 4:00 am on a Sunday morning, when thunderstorms rend the dark.
This siberian exile is quickly turning out to be too muggy. Lots of flies, swamp water, stagnant and reeking. Treading water, not exactly keeping my head above the surface, but at least not drowning. There are no life preservers in this lagoon.
Perhaps a change of scenery is in order?
Maybe it’s too early to settle down and start a family. Maybe the great maguffin up in the sky is telling me to abandon this bourgeois nightmare for a while, try something else, get out of my ‘comfort zone.’ What else is there?
Wandering minstrels, vagabonds, traveling mushroom circuses. They’re doing it. They’re roaming the country, living within the Code. But they’re searching for themselves. They’re trying to recapture the lost art of the bohemian, the elusive and vaporous cigarette smoke that marks the passing of time. Another spent life. Another bum on the curb. This is not society.
But, how do you reconcile society, in its greatest sense, with the wandering vagabond? Can they only exist as two ideals, separated by time and place? Can a bridge be built? Or does one have to push themselves into it with all of their soul, consuming it and re-birthing it a hundred times, until they find a home? You can either have one, or the other (at a time), but try for both and you’ll be rent in two.
4:00 am on a Sunday morning, but it could be any time and date, any place. Any weather. The days flow into each other like dull mercury, sliding down wrinkles in my hands and spreading silver drops on the floor. This is what life is like without purpose. Without a firm schedule of striving, for either the bourgeois dream or another. This is treading water, through a swamp. And it’s so dark in this lagoon.
So, Toronto...
mood: introspective · working on: website and job search
I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, and it seems the only way out of this mess. Though I’ve become somewhat comfortable with my life here, the constant lack of “city”-ness or civilization has become jarring. To add to this, I am constantly perturbed and distracted by the most asinine characters.
Considering that there’s nothing here for me, as made especially clear by most of my friends moving away for the summer, I think it might be time I moved on. Toronto’s close, and there are job prospects there. Is that all there is to my life, all that matters in my decision making process?
So, Rochester is (was) my Great Siberian Exile, huh? Time to pack up and move back to Civilization? Time to find myself alone, in another country, knowing nobody, ready (forced) to make new acquaintances. Seems like, this is the story of my life.
I originally pictured myself becoming anonymous in the bowels of New York City. What a romantic notion, yeah? Everyone moves to New York. But Toronto is where the jobs are. Where the money is. I could make a living there, stay for a few years, work my way back up the job ladder. Then what?
What do I do after that? Attend college? Get a degree? Will I piss my 20’s away in trivialities, in cigarette breaks and job applications, waiting and trying halfheartedly to find something? To find myself?
I am a purveyor of cliches.
On second thought, I wish I could make a living of it. At least enough to afford coffee and cigarettes.
Coffee and cigarettes. Now there’s something I could talk for ages about. I never thought I’d be THAT GUY, but I guess it’s just how things happen. “La douleur de cigarette” I should probably learn French if I live in Canada.
Women. Drugs. Music. Song. Art.
I need some of those. I want all. It would be pretty slick if I could balance all of them while working a rockstar job and helping the world in my spare time. Wouldn’t that just kill you?
Can I find these in Toronto?
If I did, I might die from constant and unceasing orgasm.
