I was just about to go to bed when a story that’s been kind of unfinished and in pieces for years now came into my head and I realized the form it needs to be in (or lack of form really). It’s about greed and delusions and Key West and ghost tours and get-rich-schemes and absinthe and hallucinations. It purposefully breaks a few literary and grammar rules and will (whenever I get around to finishing it…maybe in the Fall) be sort of stream of conscious…sort of not. It does start with these two sentences:
There was no moon the night we dug up Avery Mortom. And beers were a buck-fifty a bottle.
I’m ready to be done with this cold or bug or whatever. It’s kept me zonked out for a week. Today, in the car, I sang along to my music, despite my throat not being ready. I sang along until I tasted acid and it felt good, even in the acid burn. I mean, a whole week of not being able to sing, by myself, in my car…on top of feeling shitty. Despite the burn, I think my sickness will be gone when I wake up next…save, perhaps, a little mucus love note from an infection that moved on. Sometimes it’s healthy to ignore your body’s imagined limitations.
Living healthy can kill ya sometimes…
And better it is indeed.
I mean, a whole week of not being able to sing, by myself, in my car…on top of feeling shitty.
It’s amazing, isn’t it, how good singing loud aloud can make you feel? Driving with the wind in your hair, perhaps a bit too fast, excellent music on the radio, and you just belt it out as your troubles melt into the yellow lines rushing past… ahhhh.. 🙂
Yes. Well said.
And the police try and tell me that it’s saffer driving a few miles slower. Slow driving isn’t safe…it just kills you in much smaller incriments.