Acid Flashback No. 55

The Blur

Deer Creek Golf & Banquet Facility, Ajax

I'm going to warn you up front that this blog will offer little of value. You won't find much focus here. I don't have any fantastic takeaways. I don't have any solutions. I sit here between the polar forces of optimism and rage, trying to reach for one while shielding from the other. Part of me wants to retreat from conversation entirely, to escape the culture and to settle down in a castle and sit on a throne and put on headphones and just wait it all out.

The culture I'm talking about is geek culture. Nerd culture. Pop culture.

Really, our entire culture, because our entire culture is pop culture these days. Geek culture is dominant. News is entertainment. Nobody wants to smell a fart, but they want to hear about it. Wow....

I'm looking out the window. Taking time to contemplate the existence of free writing at The Ontario Writers' Conference workshop begins to conjure deep thoughts. My thoughts are heavy, but my head isn't in space. I'm not going to meet Bowie. My mind is focused on metallic minerals and I'm thinking about the richness of music, a goldmine of sound deafens my existence. The music of Metallica causes a headache within, but I don't have Advil in my pocket and I can't steal the pain reliever from the person beside me. Thrashing my head from side to side looks silly, but now Anthrax and AC/DC are penetrating a heavier beat in my head and it feels so fucking good. I take a sigh of relief that would make the makers of Advil jealous.

I'm thinking to myself how faith requires an irrational belief.

Jesus Jim, the weakness overcomes my mind and soul as the music stops, I'm not finding strength from Monday or looking outside at the pretty golf and country landscape. I need to resurrect my creative thoughts from ancient times. The workshop is over and I'm being told to leave. I'm being told to get out.

I'm opening the door and it leads outside into the wilderness. I'm in the middle of nowhere and trucking home might take two hours if I drive above the speed limit. I'm sitting in the parking lot imagining my failure. 

Exiting Ajax, Ontario

Driving home, I put the pedal to the metal. I'm going faster and faster and my mind is tripping higher and higher thinking Beyond the Blue Kite. My latest reader had a couple of thoughts and told me to take it with a "grain of salt" because he mainly reads mysteries for enjoyment. 

"Good use of language to convey emotion. I would guess that you have an academic background because of your phraseology and the quality of writing."

I can almost hear the stranger's voice after he read my novel.

"In general I felt it was well written. The last quarter of the book was brimming with excitement -- well worth the read."

But it's never enough. Talking Heads greet me in the driveway.

"And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile. And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife. And you may ask yourself: 'Well.. how did I get here?'"

"I don't know," I tell the empty mailbox and open the door. The spirit world welcomes me home. I'm terrified about rejection from my first manuscript from the literary world, but there's Voodoo or Nirvana or The Doors. But I slam the door and go to the bathroom. At the very least, let this be a call to do better. Burn the rejections, toss them in the toilet, rain my piss upon their parasitic heads, and say bye-bye as I flush the bowl with clean water once more.

TOILET BOWL BLUES

The scene is a crowning glory

From the roof to the toilet,

I'm sorry I can't show you

Since it ends with a story.

From the bowels of my soul

To die of a massive coronary

Without even knowing it, 

Shit, to the toilet bowl --

I hear Mozart, my good dog:

"Pay no attention to whatever,

To anybody's praise or blame."

I mostly enjoyed a modest log. 

It'll send your heart reeling

If you follow a true feeling.