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Saturday, September 29, 2001
Some days, the only thing that cheers me is that, for me, at least, it's impossible to have cancer of the penis and the clitoris at the same time. Today, it's the fact that I'm more stable mentally than Brian Wilson.
Genius is a terrible, frightening thing. I'm not about to say that I fall into that category. I could probably be in MENSA, but I'd rather not be. I seem to be smart. Smarter than most, anyway. I don't have loads in the way of common sense, but I seem to get by just fine. Well, not fine, so to speak, but I probably won't starve. There's a big ol' difference between 'genius' and being smart. People often say, "Oh, he was such a genius. But then he got into the drugs." I say that geniusii are the only people with a legitimate reason to do drugs. They have more to escape from than most of us. They have to escape their own mind. I can't even imagine having to deal with, say, amazing music in my head or quantum physics all the time. Every now and then I have a good idea or something, but it's not all the time. I refuse to believe that drugs are bad. Drugs CAN NOT be bad. It's the misuse of them that is bad. Some of the best music that Ray Charles produced was while he was hooked on heroin. Same with W.S. Burroughs. Did the drugs help them? It might have. Or, to quote John Lennon, "Drugs have affected my writing about as much as the cornflakes I had for breakfast." But, would Bukowski have been nearly as good were he not an alcoholic? Would Hunter S. Thompson be anywhere without his drugs? Where would I be without my Paxil? I'm a firm believer in better living through chemistry. I'd much rather take a pill that makes the bad noise softer than sit and talk about the causes of the bad noise. I don't think I want to know what makes me tick. Bad shit, that's all I know. I don't want to kill my anger. It's been with me for nearly as long as I can remember. I like my moral outrage, my impotent rage at the world. It's not all consuming, thankfully. It's just that sometimes, it's damn tough to walk thru Walmart and not want to kill most of the people there. Aisle after aisle of ugly, ugly people. Ugly people doing ugly things and buying ugly products and thinking ugly thoughts. And then.... I see someone so beautiful it makes me want to cry. Someone who looks so innocent, so untouched by the ugliness of the world. And that makes things better. Or, I'll read something particularly beautiful in Pooh. I'm not ashamed to admit it, I like Milne's Pooh stories. Everyone in the stories is just so dumb and wonderful that it makes you smile and feelhappy and want to hug all of them for being so silly and trying so hard to do right. I agree with Vonnegut -- angels are real. But they don't have wings or trumpets. They wear bowler hats and move pianos up the world's longest flight of stairs. Laurel and Hardy, The Marx Brothers, the Three Stooges, Winnie the Pooh, THESE are the angels, my friends. If you've read my movie reviews at KNIM, you know that I tend to make comparisons. My mind works in that way every so often. If you've been reading Preacherman's blog, he has some sort of point that he makes in each one of his posts. I think that's wonderful. I, however, rarely have a point. Ain't polite. I just put fingers to keyboard and if I'm lucky, coherent thoughts emerge upon my computer screen. Trouble lies in getting my thoughts to slow down enough for me to grab onto one of them and see where it leads me, if anywhere. I have lots and lots of thoughts. We all do. This is my space for my thoughts. I think lots about heroes, and music, and God. And girls. And it looks like this thought has ended. eof Comments by: YACCS |