Answered In a Gonzoid Run-On
Wait. Why did I move here again?
If I’d stood on a low pair, waiting indefinitely for the call of the big release, where I could steer the rubber raft of my existence down the stream without fear of discovering the newest ancient species of freshwater shark that exists only in the tidal surge of delegatory, masturbatory passion and fearful, involuntary greased-rope-ladder downkicking…
I reckon I would’ve lost the point – like a strung out waitress in an off-the-strip dive, struggling to tally her losses on what was supposed to be her final trip to the blackjack table, to bring her to some sort of psychological state of break-even that ignored the past and arithmetic…
But I had fears. Big ones. With crazy, dead eyes.
Deep within I did want the high. The one you get from success and doing it your own way, with your middle finger out in salute, if only curled up inside your buttoned shirtsleeve or behind your back like an angry kid keeping fingers crossed. A psychosomatic high – like the one you got from trying to smoke banana peels as a twelve year-old, knowing full well that if it worked the law would be at your door but unable or unwilling to resist the temptation to defy the harsh reality of organic chemistry. So I’m to spend some time impressing myself that I am not in fact the newest and perhaps saddest shiny brass cog, destined to wear and corrode over time…
I moved to Texas, land of fucking contradiction, a brownian stew of sentiments and dispositions, a land unto itself, where the wayward but captive transient rushes in to meet the hard-nosed and single-minded immigrant, both watched warily by the wizened but fixed-eyed glare of southern conventional existence and manner. A place where nature is saddled like an ill-tempered mule for the dirty work of man but has a separate and rich life in its downtime, full of a splendor as rich as it was long before man stopped flinging his shit at his shadow. And it’s hot, but I like it, and I think I’ll stay. At least until I get a good tan.
Here I sit, at the end of a long thought, but at the beginning of a new story. And if you read this far, you are to be commended.
4 Missives So Far
01 vanessa said on Thu Jun 22 0:55:40 EDT
"brownian stew of sentiment and dispositions"? good god, you know what phrases like that do to a girl like me...
getting back on topic, I believe this is what is referred to as culture shock stage number two, the rejection phase. It's even more difficult to deal with when you're still in your home country - it's like some twisted way of looking at yourself from the outside in, and sometimes you just don't like what you see. And other times it's not so bad:)
02 anonymouscoworker said on Thu Jun 22 12:21:12 EDT
w00t! I'm to be commended.
I really liked this post, by the way.
03 tfg said on Sat Jun 24 16:34:51 EDT
That's a pretty heavy post that I can relate to. Sometimes, I, too, sit on a low seat "waiting indefinitely for the call of the big release." Unless, of course, I've had a lot of fiber that day.
04 TheIdleReceptionist said on Mon Jun 26 17:19:49 EDT
Ugh. I can't decide whether to look at your post with a sad, "I've SO been there" pity, or a nervous expectation that even though I'm finally moving back to my beloved homeland, the fact that life has moved on will spin me right back into that "transient" stage you describe.
Either way, don't stop writing. I could only track enough with it to know it was beautiful.
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