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Cerebral Contents: Update for 05.13.08: Backsliding by Cynthia Ruth Lewis 05.05.08: Five Feet and Building by Joel Van Noord Grocery Aisle by Richard Lighthouse Cross the Road by Ashok Niyogi 04.29.08: The Modern Covenant by Daniel E. Wilcox Death by Onions by Michael Frissore 04.21.08: Future's Children by Kimberly Raiser Identity Theft by George Anderson A Great Deal of Money by Justin Hyde 04.14.08: Mr. Papaya and Dale by Eric Suhem California by Caroline Imreibe Aftermath of Vehement Argument #1,068 by Cynthia Ruth Lewis Trip-Hammer Vitality by Lisa Nickerson 04.07.08: The Florence of Basel, or Why Readers of Nietzsche Need to Read Burckhardt by Jeff Crouch Friends of the Poet by Sean C. Bowen Picture Perfect by Leah Baldwin 03.24.08: Staring Down a White-Tailed Doe by Aleathia Drehmer 03.17.08: The Hairbrush by Vernard Kennedy Dog Days of Winter by Niall Berkeley Poem From My Grave by Michael Lee Johnson Mashed Potatoes and Hamburgers by Matt Finney 03.10.08: Hard Work by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal Jetty Cake Pigs by J.D. Nelson |
Day 2: 12/15/03 So our beloved Catalyst is back online. And here I am. Your captain. As I write this, I am drunk. Not a big surprise to my comrades, I'm sure. But what purpose will this column serve? Only to shake off the brine and the barnacles that have formed. Very Joycean, I hope. A big warp full of stream of consciousness. Where am I at? That's a question that will serve this well. Drunk, of course, but full of melancholy. I went home, looking for a change of scenery. All I found was ragweed. I read several books, Chuck Palahniuk's Diary, and The Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger. If I had half a brain, I'd review the two, but maybe later, if any of you have a hard on for that sort of shit like I do. But what I want to talk about now is depression. I see anything and it makes me cry now. And the liter of bourbon I just drank doesn't help. Or maybe it does. My recommendation for the holidays is to get completely trashed. Without boundaries. Liquor yourselves up. Get as pissed as you want. I know now that I am the only me. We are all alone in the end. We surround ourselves with whatnot. Everyhwhere. Whatever it may be. Cheap women. Cheap scotch. Whatever it may be. It's all some sick attempt at happiness. Maybe other drunks can get me here, but the first one is always the best. I sit here now, having the first of many cigarettes I've missed since I was at home. I come from a family that doesn't believe in self destruction, I can say? At least from chemicals, although that's a lie for the most part. I puff on the first cigarette (breaking tense) and think of the first one I had so many years ago. Actually, it was from my return to smoking. I smoked in high school, the occasional cigarette whenever I could get it. But I didn't really start hardcore until freshman year. Duquesne. That first new cigarette is inexorably tied to my first and only real girl, Katie. Katie O'Neil. And I hope I got your last name right. God knows the times I spent searching for you on the Internet, beer tucked safely and comfortably in my hand. I puffed that first cigarette so awkwardly and saw you there. Coolly and nonchalantly smoking yours. I hazarded a "come-on". God knows what I said. Anything that came to mind. I was rich in nicotine bliss. Far far away in it's sickly goodness. Hacking a lung and feeling a tug in my groin. Actually that's a new sensation, probably from the first time, but fuck it. Why not? Euphoria from the substance that will kill me. Why not die in a sea of pleasure, blood lung fluid and buzzing pheromones. Why not? Aren't the best poets eloquent about death? So I romanticize cigarettes. We talked for hours. Walked. Expressed life philosophy. Like the connection was so important. What came later is for another time. Like next week. Or tomorrow, where I'll get on it if you want it. I am a sad creature like all of us. I live in the past. It feels so real, that I wonder if it happened. Do you ever feel like that? I am rich in it, the doldrums I crave. But I would like to hear from you. Give me your first cigarette stories. Or booze stories. I'll give it a week then I'll reply myself. I love you Hunter S., wherever you are. I summon all dead literary magnates. Help me out of this funk. I end with a prayer, like Pete Townshend said with Tommy. They began
and ended with a prayer: "See me, Feel me." I say: Can you see
me? Can you feel me? Visit Captain Fun's Swarthy Archives. ______________________________________ |
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