Wine (Part IX)

It is the end of illusions. Why does the "gene" that favours my godlessness persist? Maybe because of other qualities, like allowing me to criticize my own cherished beliefs and making me eminently sane, come what will, come what shocks the body and mind are prone to. And it's not a little shock by any means, the colossal staggering, looking at my refelction framed in grafitti in every possible orientation and mood. Talking up loneliness and intimidation and all the people I had lost respect for over the years over a gradually abcessing table with its ridiculous widening and foreshortening and ruts and canyons and vistas and dark grottoes and beer patches and nacho hunks and wadded snot rags. Where am I going with this? I am going for an emotion: that "hopelessness" which I raged against the entire night to the puddles and the ruts. By now I really need to stop tilting at fucking abstract windmills, but I can't stand the sight of their turning machines grinding methodically through every person's history, incoherent but ocassionally removing the fan from the face to reveal a Fool mask. I could not pass a Turing test in this condition. Every whore at every bar would look me over: not carrying enough money, or not determined enough, or not stylish enough, or too self-conscious despite the gin and tonic.

Spirals and streaks. Too much wine. But wine beats beer. Liquor grudgingly accepts wine. Wine wins. Suddenly the lips that were chapped are chapped no more. And the hair that was itching all night no longer itches. And new choruses well up and spiral up in my articulatory loop and I articulate and gesticulate, sinister-brilliant-chic for once, for ten minutes, while I can get a word in. To stretch this for a couple of days would make me supremely articulate and actually half-believing my own esoteric knowledge forms some useful gnosis.

Fuck eventualities (e.g. the ladder). Praise be to contingencies (e.g. the stable tree branch). Eminent sanity blows like blowhard sheepdog busybody matrons herding us all in for group photos. But what's on the other end? Insanity spurs creativity, but it also stifles it: so spoke the man in the aisle of the convenience store (from his perch in a magazine).

Consider: "What information consumes is rather obvious: it consumes the attention of its recipients. Hence a wealth of information creates a poverty of attention, and a need to allocate that attention efficiently among the overabundance of information sources that might consume it."