MAXIN AND RELAPSIN

I started this blog during a period of prolonged sobriety, during which I found myself with a fair amount of free time and enough free-form thought floating around in my brain to fill up a cess-pool. The comparison is deliberate.

Since that time, I have started drinking again and I find that my blog entries have pretty much declined in proportion. The alleged correlation between creative thought and action and ravenous consumption of mind-altering substances is well documented. Not to compare something as inconsequential as my personal blog to the works of Hemingway or Fitzgerald or the music of The Velvet Underground, but for the love of sweet fuck I just don't see how they did it. When I drink, there are a few limited activities in my peripheral vision of desires, and, trust me, not one of the fucking things is productive. Not to say I've never had a good creative thought when drunk or high, but I can count on one hand the number of times I was ever driven to anything remotely resembling creative action because of it. Of course, this leads me to wonder in periods of intense honesty whether I really "have it" in the same way all the great drunk writers do. All types of presumptuous on my part, I know.

Pretensions to artistry aside, this whole business does leave me with a certain dilemma. Two things I love, one productive and one destructive, have shown themselves to be, if not entirely incompatible, certainly not comfortable living together under the same roof. The decision of which one to ditch should be an easy one, and I'm sure it would be for a non-addict. Unfortunately, this beautiful poison that I have come to love and hate with equal passion is much more persuasive with me than it is with the average citizen. Pathetic, yes, but a reality nonetheless. My best hope is that my desire to actually produce something worthwhile that came from my own mind will outweigh the urge to stare into the abyss for its own sake. God knows, I've spent enough time on option two.

THE LURE WOULD PROVE TOO MUCH

Stone cold, I think I'm taking you home, so
I can be broken in two
Just like you

Sexy eyes and c'est la vie, I'll call you sometime
When I'm blue

Say so, I'm getting under your skin, so soft
I can't help but pursue
Til I'm screwed

Sunset, everything's fire
But I can't can't get any higher
Come get this lightning and rain all over me

Come to, I forget all of it
Someone, I can't remember at all
Is gonna fall

O, Babe, without any doubt there is
One thing I am nothing without and
O, Babe surely you know I'll never tell you

Come back down, come back down
Come, if you're dumb

O, Babe, without any doubt there is
One thing I am nothing without and
O, Babe surely you know I'll never tell you

Sunrise, sunrise, sunrise, some rise
Sunrise, sunrise
on me

Shine on, I can see clearly the light on
Crashing me into the rocks
You siren sweet

DEMONS AND SUNSHINE

I recently watched a documentary about the brilliant avant garde filmmaker David Lynch entitled, creatively, Lynch. If you are a fan of Lynch, it is truly a delight to watch, seeing the master in his preferred milieu, acquiring ideas and inspiration from sources that range from merely ugly to downright sinister. It's like watching Bach compose one of his beloved concertos.

Interspersed at various points throughout the documentary are gems wherein Lynch provides his theory of film and art and the most advantageous process whereby successful artists communicate with the world. Among these pearls is a monologue that kept me thinking about it for days afterward. Contrary to popular wisdom, Lynch does not believe that one needs to be unhappy or morose or even brooding in order to create art dealing with the dark and nightmarish side of human nature. To the contrary, says Lynch, great art, whether it be a celebration of light or darkness, is more likely to occur when the artist is at his happiest and most alert.

Watching Lynch be interviewed belies his point quite nicely. Quirky and conversational, David Lynch never comes across as some brooding asshole who's too good for his interviewer. His little broadcasts on his website regarding the weather in L.A., along with his formidable story-telling abilities relating to his days in Philadelphia, reveal a somewhat social man whose extroverted qualities cross over to his films.

Knowing that this man is the creative force behind some of the most twisted and bizarre films in history illustrates his point quite clearly. Maybe a happy life is the key to understanding the dark underbelly of the human animal. Perhaps it allows the artist a certain objectivity and distance that is necessary for an honest portrayal of existential reality. On the contrary, a genuinely miserable person is more likely to get bogged down in his own lack of joy and his bitterness at the world. Even taking something as relatively minor as this blog, I know I am much more likely to blog if I am having a good day. Methinks Lynch is onto something here.

Now, as to how to ensure that you are happy so all this great art can be brought to life? Sorry, folks, that is just not my fucking department.

Nothing But

Is there anything more important than what is true and what is correct? I've discovered recently that there is a significant portion of peeps out there for whom truth is a mere afterthought or, even worse, an inconvenience to be overcome with spin and perception-controlling. I want to write a detailed and exhaustive blog about the ultimate importance of truth and its declining importance in the age of ubiquitous media. If you notice that I've gone another 2 or 3 entries without laying down my views on the beauty of truth, please let me know. I think the time is ripe.

Unknown Legend

Is this or is this not one of the sexiest fucking pics you have ever seen? Yes? I thought so. If I could party with any female on earth, she would be the one. Goddamn.

CARL

See this guy here? He possesses a purity of heart and a generosity of spirit that leaves me breathless. He's been a part of life for eight years now, and I love him with a fevered intensity. If parents of human children feel even a fraction of the affection I feel for this little fellow, I'm surprised they ever let them leave the house. Should someone make the mistake of harming him, I would have no problem killing them instantly.

I've known quite a few people in my day, and there is not a single one of them that I believe remains the same entity once my back is turned. I have no such belief regarding him. He is the most loyal and soulful being I have ever known, and I'd trade a million of you for one of him. And twice on Sundays.

Psalm 116:12

THERE'S A REASON THEY CALL IT A "BLAST"

Being visited suddenly by something or someone from your past, I am convinced, calls up something more than mere psychic nostalgia. The older I get, the more convinced I am that these notorious "blasts from the past" are an actual physiological phenomenon; that they produce real chemical reactions in the brain and in other parts of the body that, in turn, produce some type of euphoric event.

This has happened to me in the past few days. A voice from the past has spoken up, and I've paid attention. Every inch of my brain and spine are licked with every last detail of the events of years ago. My body has literally had a physical reaction to this occurrence. It's like being punched in the face, only not as subtle. Whoever posited the theory that we are the sum of the things we do and feel must have been on to something. I want to stay in this spot, in this particular time and place, for the rest of my life. It's like some wonderful dream from which I have no desire to awake.

I remember the person I was, the things I said and did, the things that were said and done to me, all rolled up into a snowball of vivid recollection. It's an interesting little dance we do with the past. While there is the tried and true cliche of not dwelling there and allowing it to consume us, there is also the undeniable truth that the past shapes us, and molds us into who we are today. As such, it can never be fully irrelevant or a mere theoretical entity to be shoved aside when it coincides with our present day comfort. It has to be nurtured and respected, and granted unlimited access when the need so calls.