Pissed Off, Fucked Up

This written last night before I began sending so many of you those rotten, outrageous emails.

*     *     *     *     *     *     *

Pissed off.  Fucked up.  Two things I have looked forward to, now gone without my attention or presence. Sunday night's first episode of Mad Men.  It is the only television show I have watched over.  Got more out of it the second viewing than I did the first like a good piece of literature.  I'd marked it.  Sunday, July 25, Season 4 Premiere.  Forgot about it.  Missed it.  I woke up at 12:30 last night with my head on the computer keyboard.  Too much whiskey, maybe.  Too much life.  No, too little.  Despondency and despair, etc.  But last night coming home from "dinner with mother," driving on the big curve of a brick road that borders the swooping shore of the big lake with its beautiful sweeping view of sky and shore, my lake, my sky, my shore,  I saw the almost full moon rise mythic and mysterious, and I said in hushed tones to myself, "you will go tomorrow at sundown with your camera and you will photograph this big, sweeping, beautiful event."  The Full Buck Moon.  And I forgot.  And by the time I remembered, the cloudiness had come to block the view.  Obscure it.  Despondency and despair, etc.

I will go out and look for it in a little while, but I did not see it rising majestic over that big old lake and did not feel its pull.  I worry much about missing out on life, such as it is now, worry that I have had the best of it and can only look forward to less and worse.  Was.  And then, like a feeb and a fool. . . .

How old was Shakespeare when he died?  Don't worry.  I can Google it.  But he was young.  He was young yet left so much for us to ponder and admire.  And that is when it is done, I guess, though I feel a greater creative power now that I am half-lame, half-blind, than when I was virile and, of course, distracted, when I only wanted to create in order to impress women and piss off men.  Well, it is still the same, and I feel it now in the darkness of a clouded sky before a full moon, the Full Buck Moon, and with the whiskey again patting me on the back and telling me what a swell fellow I am.  I feel it now and wish to march into a small town and ravish it with my tales and beauty and charm.

But it is time for bed, for there is work tomorrow, and a man must make his living.  There are people somewhere having fun tonight, people who did not miss the season premiere of Mad Men, who watched the full moon rise, and who are now just in their cups and howling about lines from the Dos Equis "Most Interesting Man in the World" commercials.  I know it's true.

One more whiskey for a nightcap and then to bed.  To sleep and not to dream, I hope, for those dreams have gotten pretty dreary.  But maybe tonight, with the help of old Buck. . . .  And I bet I'll let you know.