Coffee has left the building. I don't know why. Maybe cuz it's a thin, oily drink that tastes bad. Strange how going a week without coffee makes the desire to drink it fade away. I'm sitting with some Irish Breakfast Tea and even though it's bagged, it still makes it go for what it's worth.
I'm acting in a movie today. I get to play some guy who shows up at the last moment to save people, so you know, I'm not surprised it's me who got picked for the role. One day I'll tally up my creative efforts, then buy myself some flowers and call it a date.
All of this journalism bullshit floats over my head like a great, wet placenta.
I got drunk last night. It's all in the head. A tiny bit of it. 2 inches outside the skull, and the bubbles on the inside of the skull don't make a difference to nobody. You can argue "community" and "change" all you want. But that's all it is - argument, and it's inside your head. Give yourself a rock, or a spy-suit with a utility belt. Now that's outside the head.
I'm looking forward to school being over. I want to become an international traveller, who raises money in Japan and then works as a journalist in other countries. See, I love the idea of a travelling, working journalist, but I can't stand the school aspect of it -- again, I feel it has to do with inside and outside the head. School is an idea, and people run with their idealisms in school so much that I know it's not real. It's just journalism. Like pipe-fitting, or something equally blasé. My plan is to travel the world until I'm 35, then make my decision in life. Included are a few goals: buy a car in Norway, drive it to Spain. Get into trouble in Panama due to some article I'll write. Find a Zen poet in Japan, so I can work on my "Anti-Zen" approach.
"Anti-Zen" not the opposite of Zen, but rather a different approach. Say you're Ukrainian. You're going on about your life, when one day you discover you have a Jamaican twin, black as night. It doesn't make sense, but the paper-work is there. That's "Anti-Zen". Or the man who shits out t-bone steaks. Does he serve them to his guests of honour? Of course he does. And when honour guest 7 asks where the steaks come from, the man says, "some little shop around the corner. The butcher is a real asshole, but he knows how to cut a mean steak. Nobody knows how he does it . . ." That's "Anti-Zen."
I wonder how music will fit into travel. Will it be guitar? Or will I cart a drum-kit along with me wherever I go. Who knows. All I know is that this school stuff is in it's last throes. I stab it. It stabs me. Like a boy.
Posted by matty-b at January 22, 2005 9:29 AM