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Tuesday, May 25, 2004
Mmmmm -
Tonight I'll break with tradition and write while I feel good. Been sipping from 3 bottles of absinthe, two French and one Spanish.
Naturally, life hasn't suddenly become idyllic, but I've lately adopted a strict provisional approach to it all, and today was notable for nothing especially bad descending on our heads. Something to celebrate, that. Shelley, Maureen and I hung out with the babies, and without getting too descriptive about this perfectly bland (always a good thing) afternoon, accept my assurance that it was so, and I knew it, and savored all.
In view of such rare, appreciated bucoleriffic voutation, I elected to "strike whilst the iron is luke" and enhance already pleasant circumstances with a touch of yon good green elixir. Gladly, the first tendrils of thujone reached my brain right on time for a wild thunderstorm, which roared over our environs just as they began to sink brow-deep into the mystic Purkinje effect. Swell coincidence. We stood on the porch as the world chirped, cheeped and Ka-boomed about, and all nature shrugged off its businesswear to gambol for a while in loose, iridescent pajamas.
Such green! Criminy! Green as a raw recruit chomping a mouthful of baby spinach, pondering the flag of Holy Ireland. I was blissed beyond all ken, and remain so these hours later, after many foolin'-no-one cries of "just one more." I am at this moment an insolent poison lizard, lolling on a fat broadleaf vine in compleat zen fuckyallitude. Content to remain but a mossy lump befuzzing my tiny parcel of crazed nature as I dimly audit sweet all-unknown with these omnidirectional, spheroid eyes of mine, I belch forth definitive celebratory fanfarations over today's sublime nonevents. Tomorrow will likely suck powerfully, as is its wont, but who cares? Not Sport Murphy.
I swat a skeeter with my new tail and hum a merry air.
I won't try to claim that nights like this are "worth" all the other shit, but I will shout confidently that yer regan grice-vegas of the world - knowing no green but that of envy, money and that spiritual dysentery peculiar to corpse-feeders - CANNOT know this feeling, and that is something to gloat over.
I'm clean, you fucking vermin, and I still smile despite your best efforts. I'd also like to see any of you hammer out something this coherent while this drunk. Or while sober. I'd like to watch you try to understand it in either state.
The high motherfucking price of me-ness, as detailed throughout this blog, is a bargain for what it buys:
to BE me. And to know mine.
My love to all who truly love me and mine, and a special benediction to little Sawyer Kalbaugh.
PS - had a fun hang with (among other chums) one Michael Kupperman the other night. The best cartoonist working today, and a funny cuss in person as well. Cheers, fellow sot!
Tonight I'll break with tradition and write while I feel good. Been sipping from 3 bottles of absinthe, two French and one Spanish.
Naturally, life hasn't suddenly become idyllic, but I've lately adopted a strict provisional approach to it all, and today was notable for nothing especially bad descending on our heads. Something to celebrate, that. Shelley, Maureen and I hung out with the babies, and without getting too descriptive about this perfectly bland (always a good thing) afternoon, accept my assurance that it was so, and I knew it, and savored all.
In view of such rare, appreciated bucoleriffic voutation, I elected to "strike whilst the iron is luke" and enhance already pleasant circumstances with a touch of yon good green elixir. Gladly, the first tendrils of thujone reached my brain right on time for a wild thunderstorm, which roared over our environs just as they began to sink brow-deep into the mystic Purkinje effect. Swell coincidence. We stood on the porch as the world chirped, cheeped and Ka-boomed about, and all nature shrugged off its businesswear to gambol for a while in loose, iridescent pajamas.
Such green! Criminy! Green as a raw recruit chomping a mouthful of baby spinach, pondering the flag of Holy Ireland. I was blissed beyond all ken, and remain so these hours later, after many foolin'-no-one cries of "just one more." I am at this moment an insolent poison lizard, lolling on a fat broadleaf vine in compleat zen fuckyallitude. Content to remain but a mossy lump befuzzing my tiny parcel of crazed nature as I dimly audit sweet all-unknown with these omnidirectional, spheroid eyes of mine, I belch forth definitive celebratory fanfarations over today's sublime nonevents. Tomorrow will likely suck powerfully, as is its wont, but who cares? Not Sport Murphy.
I swat a skeeter with my new tail and hum a merry air.
I won't try to claim that nights like this are "worth" all the other shit, but I will shout confidently that yer regan grice-vegas of the world - knowing no green but that of envy, money and that spiritual dysentery peculiar to corpse-feeders - CANNOT know this feeling, and that is something to gloat over.
I'm clean, you fucking vermin, and I still smile despite your best efforts. I'd also like to see any of you hammer out something this coherent while this drunk. Or while sober. I'd like to watch you try to understand it in either state.
The high motherfucking price of me-ness, as detailed throughout this blog, is a bargain for what it buys:
to BE me. And to know mine.
My love to all who truly love me and mine, and a special benediction to little Sawyer Kalbaugh.
PS - had a fun hang with (among other chums) one Michael Kupperman the other night. The best cartoonist working today, and a funny cuss in person as well. Cheers, fellow sot!
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