Woke up this morning, feeling good had to thank god, because yesterday was funky. Funky inside my mind, in my heart, and outside was drizzle cold rains all day long, constant. Heart has been racing sometimes at night, like it’s going to explode, and I have to close my eyes and concentrate on settling my pulse. Mind was stuck in the muck all day, about what has not come to be and what seems like it never will. But this morning, riding in to work, it was bright and clouds were layered across the sky, had that dark blue bottom shading to them, white on top, none of it puffy so much as fresh smears of non-rain across a crisp soft blue background. Trees are flashing color right now, and I’ve been making it out of bed early as fuck to catch the newborn edge of the day, and sitting around at home at night trying to force a few thousand words out even when fatigue is hammerlocking my eyebrows together.
I realized riding in to work this morning though, that what I need more than anything is shelter from the shelter. Looking at the tree colors in the distance, panty shot skyline wide open, I didn’t want to be in no buildings or cities or towns or not even inside fences that barely barbed wire wrapped around immense acreages of semi-wildness. We build all these shelters from the outside world, create air conditioned creature comfort for ourselves, have hyberboosted the technological distractions of our lives in the past decade, and really at the end of all that braided copper wires like a noose around our necks, all we fucking need is to be outside of it all again.
I was explaining to the oldest kid tonight about feral children, and Oxana Malaya who still prefers to run with the dogs than stay with the humans, and my kid was like, “If I found a kid in the wild, I’d leave them, so that they could be happy.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that you’d get in trouble for doing even that, just leaving it all alone and degenerate back into perfect wildness. She’s only 11, and full of all those idealistic views of the world that any pre-teen girl would be. You can’t be wild anymore, or it’s hard as fuck. So many goddamned shelters sheltering ourselves from us. Sometimes, at the end of the day, when I’m not seeing the sky and mountains and semi-wild horizon to run off into like a naked penis, and I look around and see the complexes and interstate on-ramps and all the other cars, I can understand how pyromania starts. De-sterilize it all with raw fire.
When G.G. Allin went acoustic, that’s about all I can stomach from him. The outlaw scumfuck stuff was shock value, trying to scream at the bricks stacked into imprisoning shelters. It’s his acoustic shit that sounds to me like the true feral music, to be played beside pallet fires along railroad tracks. Too much music that is supposed to be crazy as fuck is just more bricks and mortar and stifling ass premeditated orderliness. Wild feels good, not angry. Angry is smashing your head against all the walls hoping to see a glimpse of what I saw this morning.
And still I just went to work and sat around, “working”. Should’ve left all this shit behind me, carving idle words into underpass concrete with railroad spikes. But here I am, tethered to myself, talking some bullshit inside the robots.
STEAL “Carmelita”
NEXT UP: Tapdancing on plywood!
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