I'm running on the bad fumes of a tainted fuel. I promise myself once again that if I make it to the end of the week, I am done, that I will live a life of purity, of gentle exercise and pure foods and strange teas. I will read and listen to music and watch art t.v. and leave the crazy world to others. Just give me the luck and the endurance to see this through.
Then. . . then, oh lord, I will leave the anxiety and drama behind.
A younger man, of course, would laugh at what I think of as "too much." Not all, but many. I am a worrier and a momma's boy and a fatal romantic. Walking through the Devil's Garden is exciting once or twice, maybe. . . but I have been "blessed" to travel long, hard stretches without seeming end.
Even in high school, what the other kids did scared me. I was always the first to go home, to escape what I viewed as a twisted madness of sex and drugs and rock and roll. My body was my temple. I became a vegetarian my senior year. I read and explored the natural world. I wanted to be a marine biologist. I wanted a girl I couldn't quite make out in the distance.
It is not age. I promise. Almost, anyway.
Here's a picture from last night's brothel shoot. Here's the drink:
I still have a bottle of the real and true absinthe sent to me years ago by a friend of the blog when he was deejaying in Eastern Europe. At the time, the making of it there was still legal or legal again, I'm not sure which. I wish I had a case of it and some opium, too. No. . . wait. . . .
I need a monastery.
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