The Rambling Idiot
I feel the need to write. There are things forming on the tip of my brain that are ready to spill forth, but I've been either pretending to be busy or just completely fucking lazy as of late to really register anything beyond some mere crippled sentences. I've been cavorting about trying to find fresh faces for interviews, people who I really admire and want to know more about. We'll see. I'd really like to see Echo From Esoterica branch out more. But baby steps, as they say. Take too much off the tree and the whole thing dies, right? Fuck if I know. I know I just want to move forward.
I at least want to break free of any leftover bullshit I may have enveloped myself in recently. The need to push away the past and embrace the present is important, I think. Not discard the entire past, but just the shit that makes your feet muddy and causes you to leave tracks in places where no one's even noticing them. Still, I asky myself, why do I do it?
Why do I push forward with the writing, the magazine, the queer notion that I'm entertaining someone out there? Someone should at least stop by and offer me two dollars for some of thes worm cans, no? I thrill at getting opportunities to spend time with people I've admired and people whom I think should be noticed. It's not that I wish to bask in their limelight, it's that I merely just want to help them along. Say some words and see where they land.
But why? Is it necessary? After all, there are enough shmucks online with their little magazines who want to make that big difference as well. Though I'm not sure if I ever wanted to make a difference, but just some outpost of an alternative. I know that a lot of readers want their news in consise little bits of drama with no hard words to trip over. As long as the fucking country is on orange alert, that's good enough for them. So fine. I'll give them pretty colors and pictures, but if the thorny opinions bug you, then that's just icing on the cake for me.
I don't know. I've been visiting my parents for the past few days and yesterday I went down into the basement here where there is a box containing old Playboy magazines, as well as some Rolling Stone and Spin as well. All the necessities, right? Well, also in that box are numerous notebooks of mine from my high school days filled with all sorts of written thoughts, songs, and whatnot.
What the hell was I thinking back then?
You think you get dramatic later on? Jesus, everyone should be forced to read something they wrote when they were 17 and thought they knew what everything was about. Hell, I just freshly escaped my 20s last November and as I told someone then, and may have even written about it here, "Don't trust anyone in their 20s." I think those ten years were/are made to fucking feel around and see what the world's about. Hell, if you still have no answers by the time you make it out the other side, don't worry, no one else has either.
Although there are plenty of assholes in this world who will offer you their advice whether you want it or not. Talk down to you and try to put you in their place. Fuck them. And then, when you don't bother to, they become even more pissy. The people who think they have the fucking cure for everyone should just go to sleep and leave those of us who have a handle on the situation just shit in the wind. If it hits us, fine. We chose to take the chance.
The old hippie regime is still clutching onto its purple haze dreams and bottles of anxiety pills that they have since acquired after they realized that you can't just sing "Give Peace A Chance" and expect people to listen. No, sir. It has never worked that way. In this day and age, nothing says hello more than some fucking nut waving a gun around with one finger on some diabolical button and three more buried in his ass. Is the world therefore shit? Of course not. You just can't give it up for the flower children and expect them to dance and everything's Raisin Bran. To see them cling on the old shattered hopes is something Barnum could have made a fortune on.
Although my generation has done no better. But then, we never professed to. No, we got "Generation X" stuck on us by all the media moguls who thought we were worthy of so much attention just because we sat around in our underwear all day and didn't give a shit. You wanna know how many people I knew that made it through college? Let me get back to you on that after I can figure out how to count past one.
I'll get back to more on this later. If I type anymore I may find I'm uncovering something soggy. If it gets on your shoes, feel free to scrape the shit off on your own floors.
