2002-05-09 11:11 a.m.
papaya juice, no chafing

I want a keyboard/synth, a 30-40 key one, so I can pick up piano again. It's a different instrument and a different way of playing from guitar, and I'd love to put my music software to use.

Mostly, I find myself hitting out rhythms, sounds, melodies...I keep wondering what I could sequence together if I had a drum machine and a keyboard to interface with my computer...put the tools together.

I hear what S says about my intensity and talent (how she sees so much in me and is very curious to see where it leads me — sounds a lot like Michael, my old mentor — christ, wish I knew myself where this is going)...and I wonder what goes wrong with people like Jim Morrison or Janis Joplin, what was going on in their heads that they were so troubled, why they felt a need to drown themselves in alcohol, drugs, etc. Why would you want to smother yourself? Maybe they didn't see it that way (though Oliver Stone certainly did)?

Being this intense is exhausting, to be sure, but the reason I don't pump myself full of substances is multi-faceted: I can't deal with the aftereffects well (hypoglycemia); they shatter me, make it hard to think, rather than free me; and bizarrely, I'm at my best on just a caffeine buzz, if anything, a little peppier, a little sharper than usual. My mind is already fragmented and random enough. (The occasional acid/mushroom trip is nice to force some new energy in, though.)

I can turn off in other ways, or I just shut down.

It's sad, really, the fall of any great mind. I think Morrison, had he lived longer and gotten his shit back together, could have taught the world to open its eyes from a shamanic point of view. We live in an era of greed, big business, and selfish simulacra. To touch the divine, to move forward in our evolution, we need to keep our eyes, ears, and minds open to new possibilities.

Grant (another Morrison) claims that the way to move from one life to another is to imagine your dream coming true, then see the first few steps towards making that dream happen, and take them. But isn't that selfish?

I feel like an autistic futurist altruist, some horrible mix of a disconnection from reality and ideas and hope for the future, yet with a cynical streak whenever my eyes open onto real life.

AND I want to write stories about women with moss for pubic hair, whose juices taste like papaya. What good does that do the world? (well, it helps me write and gets some sexual mojo out without chafing.)