I’ve got a bad case of writer’s block. But when it carries over into work, I’m in trouble.
I sit here at work like a gibbering fool, paralyzed. Wanting all demands to go away. Dreaming of self-medication the likes of which I haven’t seen since college. And post-college, and much of my 30s.
Ok, dreaming of last weekend. Anything but being dull, dreary and unproductive.
Because really, how do you stay strong? How do you act? What do you do? We’ve got peak oil, an impending housing market crash, trillions in debt, leaders and media intent on terrorizing us with another World War for profit, monstrous third-world exploitation, global warming, right wing radio, and television. Tell my vision. Mental prison.
The new Harry Potter is dark. The new Star Wars is dark. We keep talking about “the dark.” I think we’re fascinated. Entranced.
As a media phenomenon, have you every seen anything more contrived? You really do have to ask what the point is. You really do have to ask yourself about false flags and the fomenting of WWIII. (and here I will link someone who obviously wants to have it out. Megalomania in full flower.)
Yeah, dark days. No shit. Can’t seem to see the light. Can’t seem to locate it.
What the hell. Life goes on. Even in wartime. (I read that on the inside flap of the new Harry Potter.)
I just wonder if we’ll ever catch a break. We seem to be under a spell.
Ah well, I’m workin on it. It may not look like it, but I am.
I can make it through. You can make it too. To quote Bob Dylan, who wrote…
Senor (Tales of Yankee Power)
(which Jerry Garcia does a good job with on the wonderful 1991 Arista release "Jerry Garcia Band", a live recording that seems to be out of print and which I picked up this week at a used book shop. I'd been sort of looking for it ever since my buddy Kev put it in the cassette player in the Honda 14 years ago and I was surprised to be diggin it, not giving the Dead their due at that point.)
Senor, senor, do you know where we're headin'?
Lincoln County Road or Armageddon?
Seems like I been down this way before.
Is there any truth in that, senor?
Senor, senor, do you know where she is hidin'?
How long are we gonna be ridin'?
How long must I keep my eyes glued to the door?
Will there be any comfort there, senor?
There's a wicked wind still blowin' on that upper deck,
There's an iron cross still hanging down from around her neck.
There's a marchin' band still playin' in that vacant lot
Where she held me in her arms one time and said, "Forget me not."
Senor, senor, I can see that painted wagon,
I can smell the tail of the dragon.
Can't stand the suspense anymore.
Can you tell me who to contact here, senor?
Well, the last thing I remember before I stripped and kneeled
Was that trainload of fools bogged down in a magnetic field.
A gypsy with a broken flag and a flashing ring
Said, "Son, this ain't a dream no more, it's the real thing."
Senor, senor, you know their hearts is as hard as leather.
Well, give me a minute, let me get it together.
I just gotta pick myself up off the floor.
I'm ready when you are, senor.
Senor, senor, let's disconnect these cables,
Overturn these tables.
This place don't make sense to me no more.
Can you tell me what we're waiting for, senor?