Counter = 1

I am high. Above the clouds. Searching for answers. Thinking randomly – I am so tired. It sucks, you know, because I really want to accomplish something. I don’t want to be the weak link in this chain in this grand chance. I was “top dog” – I knew what I was doing and thinking. And right at this second, I really don’t feel like it. I feel weak and broken. Held together by force of necessity rather than will. I’m pissed off and disgusted. VERY much so.

No, I’m not wallowing. I’m venting. This may have been some time coming. But, as usual, it’s about me, me, me. Not progress. Regress. That should be a word. In and of itself. I’m so self-absorbed at this moment that even the sultry chaos of The Pot slips over me as cleansing waters over a black oily patina that covers the holy jewel of the Kingdoms of Heaven.

With a Gramophone in the picture, the psychedelic background settles into place. The swirling curves of red and yellow mix in with the blacks and the grays. For white is forbidden in this never-ending continuity. The collision of the forms gives birth to chaos. As the world spins around the central fulcrum that holds all in place, under the guidance of the pin that listens to the imperfections crafted into the space. I wish to be one with the something that envelopes me.

Right – I should put a counter up here somewhere. The number of times in a year, a month, a week, days, whatever – that I feel this exploding head syndrome desire. So if a counter is to be started – at this moment, let’s put it at 1. Remind me if I forget. It’s such a regular … fixture in the course of …

Going in a circle. On this gramophone.

Till a new word flushes its way into the conscious