Friday, April 22, 2016 3:13 PM
I’m in a lot of pain today—Claire thinks it’s my sciatic nerve—all I know is it hurts like a mutha. I got a decent improv recording out of it this morning—maybe there’s something to this ‘artists must suffer’ business. I don’t know how much longer I can hold it together. I need stimulation. I need satisfaction. I need engagement. And, failing all of that, I definitely need some strong drugs. In that respect, I feel that I have plenty of company—the 99% have decided to get hooked on junk. The NY Times headline this morning said the suicide rate had hit a new high, across every demographic. Heroin addiction and suicide, at the top of the pops—that’s not a good sign.
First Bowie, now Prince—and a raft of other musical greats have past just recently—it’s as if the rapture had come, and it’s only for musicians. I don’t want to keep writing about current events—it’s so depressing.
I’d rather dwell on the past. There’s a new comedy out called “Bill”—it’s a farce about Shakespeare’s early days—and another film called “Tale of Tales” which seems to be based on the original, gorier Brothers Grimm fairy tales. Usually I go for that sort of stuff—I must be low on vitamins or something. “The Lady In The Van” is out on VOD now, too—but, again, I hesitate to watch it—Maggie Smith plays an old homeless lady—hard to imagine a ‘happy ever after’ to that story. And there’s a docudrama, “Nina”, about Nina Simone’s comeback, after her midlife descent into substance abuse and madness—at least that one gets the bad stuff up front—and there should be some great music in it.
I’ll watch them all, eventually, I guess—if I get stoned enough, one day. I can watch anything when I’m good and stoned—everything is so much better that way. Hell, I should be stoned right now—it’s not like it would make this post any worse.
Saturday, April 23, 2016 10:14 AM
Music hath charms, thank god—my savage breast is ready to grab a rifle and climb the clocktower. When sleep becomes elusive in the wee smalls, and pinched nerves tingle numbness into my hands, it can be a waking nightmare in which I fear darkness—and jealously hate all the sleepy people. In my extremity I turn the lights back on—all the lights—and sit up and light a smoke and turn the radio on. I’m tempted to make a lot of noise, to futz and bang—it seems so unfair that I should suffer insomnia and yet have to keep quiet so that others can sleep! But worst is the creeping dread, the primal fear of being imprisoned in wakeful reality that becomes more a madness the more sleep-deprived I become—until the terror triggers my adrenaline—now how am I supposed to get to sleep?
But, somewhere between three and four, I got lucky—and stayed asleep nearly six hours. I’ll take that, and call it a night’s sleep—some nights I get nothing but a sunrise. Who’d’ve thought a sunrise could be so horrible? But it’s true—a sunrise is only glorious when it’s woken up to. After a sleepless night, the sunrise is just a visual kick in the teeth.
And my teeth hurt—I need a dentist. And my sciatic nerve makes my hip and back hurt. I’m just miserable—someone needs to take me to Disneyworld—or give me a dose of OxyContin.
The Rhode Islanders have become a problem for pollsters—their responses are invariably along the lines of being sick and tired of the election and having not the slightest interest in talking about it any further. This is the price pollsters pay for having their ‘product’ considered reportable news—we’ve been notified of every lift and dip in the polling numbers of all the candidates since early last year. It’s gotten to the point where it seems silly to talk about this being an election year—it’s been an election eternity. And I’ll tell you something—as of the day after election day, the first person that talks to me about the 2020 race is going to find themselves flat on their back with blood coming out their nose. I’m serious—this shit has got to stop.
When I think of all the hours and days of substantive discussion we could have had about our government, about legislation, about international affairs—instead of spending two whole years talking about that stupid billionaire—well, it’s a national disgrace. It’s an historic waste of time, of money, and of distraction from things that really matter. I’d say someone should go to prison over it—but the scum that bankrupted the nation in 2008 got off scot free, so why would I think the media would have to face any consequences for the damage they are causing. The news used to offer information—now they just peddle brain-death. I have a beautiful 56” Hi-Def Plasma TV—and lately I’ve been giving serious thought to chucking the damn thing into the front yard—as a statement and a warning to others—“This devil-box has no place in a person’s home”.