High overcast and cold this Friday morning on California’s north coast, a bit windy, too.
Despite a grueling week, it’s almost over and the sanity-belt of those 48 weekend hours lies not-quick-enough ahead.
Health shit again last night, this morning — can’t sleep and it feels as if I’ve been up since Monday. An emotional time all alone in the wee-early hours when everybody else on the planet is fast asleep, dreaming of sleep and warmth, but for me, thoughts of my children, other children, old friends, dumb ass things I’ve done, keeps hammering the entrails of the imagination.
Why in the middle of the night does the past come and wrap its far-gone fingers around my decaying brain.
Deep in the dark, the mind wobbles, and flutters, pacing across the mind’s eye like a poorly-edited movie.
(Illustration: Salvador Dalí’s ‘Galatea of the Spheres‘ found here).
This shit is sometimes called the “reminiscence effect” — the thawing of old memories long frozen in a sort of permastore, but for me it’s just not forgetting all the miserable fuck-ups in life, and the people associated with them.
The news surf this morning is just about on the same track — all wondering how the future will play when the past is slowly catching up with us. Dreams of our daddys have all gone pop, as in a reality bubble exploding over our sleeping heads.
Of course, that ‘reminiscence effect’ would effect others differently — like these tidbits from Gregg Allman in a recent interview in Esquire:
Womanizing? Well, that’s a pretty strong accusation. I don’t really want to go into it.
When I was growing up, I got no conversations with anybody from the opposite sex.
Never. Then I bought this guitar. Whoa!
Here they come! I’d get all kinda pussy!
So what’s a man gonna do? Why not two at once? Hey, why not three at once!
Then you get this fuckin’ epiphany. What the fuck is sacred, man?
It sure as hell ain’t this. So I went totally celibate for almost a year, and the next time I did it, I got married!
I don’t know about that. You know, somebody asked me one day about a hooker, and I said, “Ah, shit, I ain’t never paid for it.”
And I thought, What am I sayin’? I been married six times, I reckon I have paid for it.
Through the nose, baby!
Along with a shitload of cocaine.
And as we trounce into the weekend, all the dreams and screams in early morning reminds me of the old George Carlin line: The reason I talk to myself is because I’m the only one whose answers I accept.
And then I still think twice, or maybe, three or four times.