I woke up lost this morning. I don't know how to explain it. It could be spending so much time with these blurry, dreamy--or is it nightmarish--images. I doubt it, though. Surely not. Trying to find my way in the world just seems terribly confusing. I've often claimed, "It's like my planet blew up and I can't find my way home."
I feel like Valentine Michael Smith, that Stranger in a Strange Land.
My timing's off. My days have been odd sequences of blown routines and things left undone. I've been eating nachos and hot dogs and skipping out on the gym or getting there so late I barely work out. I've skipped going to see my mother. Possessed by a small but devilishly strange mania, I keep making things, and then, looking back I think, "What the fuck?"
I'm disoriented, glancing at reflections of images I can't make out or understand. I feel I'm playing the popular Wednesday night pub game, "Pursuit of the Trivial."
"Before he was famous for starring in the popular 1970's sitcom, what was this actor best known for?"
It's probably due to watching something heavy before bed, a disorienting movie about a man who starts following people. I can't remember the title, but it was a Criterion film in grainy black and white.
Or it could be February. A lack of sleep. Depleted endorphins.
"Nine out of ten doctors recommend. . . .""Authorities on the subject have agreed. . . .""You may have a Ph.D. You may be a NASA engineer or a touted brain surgeon, but you ain't no Travis Kelce. You ain't no Taylor Swift."
Travis? Is that right? Who said Britney Spears was Trailer Swift?
Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images
‘My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak.
What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
I never know what you are thinking. Think.’
I think we are in rats’ alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.
I should not have read so many books, should not have worshipped graven images. I was warned. We were all warned, weren't we?
It's lonely out in space.
I'm a rocket man. . . burning out his fuse up here alone
I may take a few days off from the blog. Don't desert me. I'll be back before the cock crows thrice. Or shortly after. I think I need to recalibrate. Something's gone haywire. Something's off.
But. . .you know what they say.
Don't confuse me with the facts. Just stop making sense.