Friday, August 21, 2015

ONE MAN'S DISGUSTING, HARRY ASSHOLE IS ANOTHER MAN'S CHURCH

Fuck it all. I'm moving the family back to Oklahoma. I found a place on Zillow out in the middle of nowhere with a pool. It's a trailer but it's got a fuckin' pool! And a detached little shed type structure I could use for a studio. It's 20 miles from the nearest town which has a Dairy Queen, an Allsup's, and a tiny United Supermarket. I looked it all up on Google Earth. I don't need any of it anymore. I've eaten enough sushi, I've drunk enough good wine and beer. I've had plenty of interesting conversations. The hell with it all. Music, plays, museums, parties, art openings, I don't need any of that shit anymore. Just give me a Bud and that $5 Buck Lunch. Can I get the Crispy Chicken Sandwich with that? No matter where I go, no matter what I do, it's all just nonsense anymore. You can't escape that sickly brain up there, floating around in your skull. I've been all over this crumbling world. I've seen all sorts of shit. I've hung out with Michael Jackson, I almost got murdered once on the side of a road in Venezuela. And then there's the time I wandered into a room at a party in some mansion in Miami Beach and found myself among characters not even David Lynch could cast. They were standing in a circle with cocktails and wine in their hands, looking down at two enormous, muscle-bound, beautiful black men who were fucking each other, mercilessly. You see, I used to think experiences like this were beneficial. I thought they added layers to my story, to my scope of understanding. But now it all just gets in the way. There's just been too much. I had a meeting last night with a successful writer/producer/filmmaker. The meeting went well. It was just a preliminary, feeling each other out sort of thing. But as usual, most of my attention was focused on the pile of dead bugs at the bottom of the light fixture above us. It's one of the few things in life I've always found comforting. No matter where you go, there's always gonna be piles of dead bugs in light fixtures, upon window sills and panes. I would be in casting rooms or on sets, desperately not wanting to be there. But without fail, I could always look up towards the light and see that beautiful, dark mass of collected death, perhaps even some futile fluttering. It was something, something meaningful in my senseless world. GO BERNIE!

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