Five Sheets to the Wind

Part V of the New York saga is the most brilliant of all the parts. It is the funniest, the cheeriest, the dreariest, the bleariest, the shittiest (literally), the wham-bamiest. All-in-all it is likely the most amazing tale I have ever lent my existence to, or at the very, very, least it is the most amazing tale to come out of what was a weekend chock-a-block with amazing tales. But all of that takes time and sitting down in the sunshine and respecting chronology and following a game plan and sticking to the program and, and, and... I've decided if you don't want me to do something then tell me to do something. If you do want me to do something you are going to have to figure out how to talk me into it on your own (hints: dare, ask, taunt, dare.) Apart from that I have fallen silent and that just should not be. That just cannot stand. I just cannot stand that. So I stand here silent and the spittle runs out of the left corner of my mouth and down my chin and on to the floor and we pretend it never happened to save me the embarrassment that drooling at my age brings.

It widens its reach, its grasp, it gloms onto something worthwhile and refuses to shake itself free and we all just end up watching endless reruns on endless loops of Kimmy Gibblers and DJ Tanners singing "The Song That Never Ends" for longer than either Uncle Joey or Uncle Jesse or Uncle Cracker can bear and I bear witness to the fruits of their labours and fall down the stairs because I forgot to tie my shoes on my way up. That is the way it is. That is the way it has come to stand. We sit basking in tumult and dreamless sleeps that end sooner than the should or they would if you'd closed your blinds and your windows to keep the sun and the parakeet out of your hair and your eyes and your ear. But business returns to normal. You remember what a paragraph looks like, but not where they start and end. So you wing it all the way up north from down south and we are left with a skewed vision of an east-west country that touches more oceans than it knows what to do with, yet feels peculiarly flat and despondent and we are left scratching out heads until our hair falls out and we are left to sweep our fallen hairs into fallen hair piles to cover the puddles or drool and dog piss that we are too lazy to clean up.

You know the drill. If you pretend not to see the piss puddle you won't have to clean it up. You can always plead ignorance. Ignorantly. But the immutable law of piss puddles is that you will always, ALWAYS, step in the piss puddle you pretend not to see. Ignorance is a much more difficult plea if your one sockless foot reeks of dog piss and their is a trail from the puddle to you and a sock balled and thrown in the corner, yellow with pee. Nice try. Nice try.

I've thought many thoughts and lied in state, lied awake, lied through my teeth, lied perfectly still in hopes that it would all blow over and everything would work out fine. Fine. Fine is for the birds and the purveyors of silk robes. Fine is for herbs. Fine is for spices. Fine is for groundings. Fine is for ground herbs and spices. Fine is a mess of things this has become. And the further clockwise things come this way the further counter-clockwise things go that way and we are left sitting on dirty floors in dirty piles of dirty clothes thinking dirty thoughts about Throne speeches for want of something cleaner to think about and sit in and live through as though it needn't be a war with water balloons and old rusty shovels and broken axe handles. As though this was not supposed to end with a chapter about death in white or pastel hospital beds on far flung avenues in far flung places that are too far for anyone you know to fling to. So you awake at the crack of noon for the birds and sun and you hum along to a tune without meter or lyrics or rhyme or reason. And you spit up blood into a paper cup while you are wheeled from your white or pastel hospital bed to the solarium for some fresh canned ham sandwiches. But you fall asleep half way through the first crustless half and wake up drowned in a puddle of your own spittle. You lousy creep. Keep your spittle to yourself.

Do yourself a favour. Treat yourself to the Darjeeling Limited,
it is all we've got left.


Thomas Boie Rasmussen said...

blog is back... with vengeance that hasn't been seen since teenwolf 2.

morganeliasmurray said...

I think that is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. Thank you!

jillian said...

Washed the sock yet?

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