OneForce tells me he’s got a buddy who’s got a pad in the JungFrau mountains. That’s the destination for him, but only after a circuitous tour of Europe to the sites of the graves of many of the greatest scientific minds in history before settling into this mountain pad to write his Magnum Opus, to put, he says, “this ridiculous notion of Quantum Uncertainty and Probability to bed, once and for all.” He snorts derisively. You’re never entirely sure what he’s talking about, unless you read up on it, and he’ll only explain it to you if he’s actually talking to you, not himself. It’s a little weird, but you get used to it. Other than this scientific affliction of his, OneForce is a pretty cool customer.
He’d probably say the same thing about me and this GodAwful political addiction of mine. I keep going back to that evil PNAC riff. Turns out Cheney, Rummy, Wolfy and a whole shitload of Bush cabinet members are all members of a group whose stated, unflinching goals are the taking over of the entire planet, from land, sea, earth to space to the InterNet to everything. It’s all right there on their website. Check the names of the group and what the group seeks. The names are still up there and the website is still active. Which means they’re STILL members. Right? I mean if there’s a flaw in my logic here, by all means let me know. Something is percolating on all this, a slow-burner for now.
OneForce says this mountain pad would probably be an ideal place for me to hammer out a few more Cantos and I agree. I’ve felt another Canto coming on over the past few days. This is a good thing. But it takes Time. Time becomes an important topic in your thirties. Can you write nine hundred and eleven Cantos of political protest and general Earthian yearnings in a lifetime? The answer is probably, but only if you can stop doing all the other shit you need to do. But I’ve just bloody done the starving artist thing before and the poverty gets you bloody down, man. Nope. Screw that. It’s not so tough to get money, it just takes your Time. Find a way to get paid to play, this is Nirvana. But the odds are about a billion to one.
Time.
Steve Miller’s “Fly Like an Eagle,” comes onto your Mp3Player. Your latest cosmic confluence advises you that Time keeps on slippin’ into the future, right as you’re thinking those very words. You check the clock on the screen in front of you. Eleven after ten. A lot of elevens these days. You notice that? It keeps happening. Cosmic Confluence or hideous side effect of hammering away political rants at the miscreant JerkOffs and FuckUps that seem destined to plow the entirety of human Citizenry into the largest collective FacePlant in History? Nearly impossible to tell. Like all things, it bears further consideration. Which means fuck it, but only for now.
But, the High Alps, eh? Sounds like as good a rip as any, but only after we’ve left our mark on the Amsterdam party circuit. This is supposed to be one of the Sex capitals of the world, and other than those filthy Quaker colonies, it probably is. One thing is certain, we’re there to represent the GonzoEarthian sliver, that 2% that know precisely what’s going on Out There and have chosen to have no truck with it. You know who you are and good on you if you do. I carry your badge proudly emblazoned upon my oft-condommed pecker for the good Amsterdamians to inspect and marvel at. In sooth, it is the Gonzo way.
Epic truths can wait a little bit longer, it turns out. You’re a Writer on the Run, and what you write may not always be what you would have chosen. Too much external stimuli. If it turns out it's gonna be in the form of a Canto then so be it, but it is infinitely more difficult to say. But it’s looking that way. So what are you gonna do?
-iSenseChange
RandomMP3age: "Bring It On Home," Led Zeppelin
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