Tuesday, March 31, 2015

But I Don't Much Care

Things are at a turning point they say, but I don't much care. The tribe has paid the Gov of Indynowhere to fuel a Hegelian dialectic, but I don't much care. People will fall for most anything in nowheresville.
Some other folks are beginning to see through the tribal mist and it doesn't please their sensibilities, but I don't much care. The hippies of the sixties are in their sixties now, but I don't much care about that either. Antisemitism will become the sentiment of the near future, but strangely enough, I don't even care about that. I will take no pleasure in being right about some things. Careful what you wish for; or think you wish for. It all seems so transient and topical as to be of little import. I mean who was Archduke Ferdinand anywho? Just another Bohemian.
I felt a need to chime in but my chimes aren't working. There is an overload of sorts. Give it back to the Indians and Mexicans I say. There will be burritos and casinos and that's all we want anyway when it comes right down to it. But if $5 is the going rate and you want $10(as the ruling tribe always does), ask for $20. Why can't Joe-Blow get that? I mean my group-grope has it's rights too. Dammit. But it takes almost too much effort anymore to even voice opposition to all these swirling comedies. I mean if you are going to be that crazy, what's the point in pointing out that you are crazy...I put it to ya. And I leave it with ya. But I don't much care about that either. Or as Bill once said:

"... conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action..."


The pale cast of thought. That's about where I am. And the pith and and moment are turning awry fer sure. It has taken me a few more steps than most to reach the same place to which most  arrived long ago. But we are both at the junction of 'who gives a shit' Blvd and  'fuck-it' Avenue...waiting on the terminal buss. And that's just where they dropped us off. It's not a destination per se. But a weigh station where you have time to count up your winnings and losses. But action. There's the rub. Who would fardels bear? Not many, I can tell you.
I guess I'm saying that I want to be remembered. Even if it's as an arrogant prick.  Maybe not as a 'mighty good man'. Just remembered. After this joke-of-jokes. But that's just a fleeting thought before all thoughts flee into darkness.
But anyway this ennui won't leave me alone and I can't shake it off. Which of course, by definition, it can't be. Rather than leave this in the lonely place of 'draft folder', I would publish rather than perish. Not just yet.
Oh. And thanks to the Snordster... 

Wednesday, March 11, 2015