12:19:04 The Days are just packed

26:03:03

No point in trying to fill in the blanks since the last time, at least not now.
I thought I had run out of tickets, and I may well have done so in a meaningful way, but inspired by a night home alone to come (its 16.45) and the fact that it is (probably – brain black spot, this) Bill’s birthday, I thought I’d check the stash, and Lo! Two of the buggers, of great age and unknown provenance.
So I neck one with no hesitation, and not much faith in a result, and go off for the ritual cleansing, nobly forgetting I’m due to be up early to visit [my therapist].

*   *   *

The circus is back in town, but the tigers are tired and the clowns can’t seem to crack wise.
(Bizarrely, I’d rather dance.)
The whip’s lost its crack, the white horse is black, and the elephant pooped in the pies.

Remember the golden rule; if you can actually wonder whether or not you are tripping, you almost certainly aren’t. But maybe grass and guarana will provide an adequate simulacrum.
*   *   *
A note says: PATGOD [ie chapter 7 of TWITW] Masters = Pan
If only.
Playing with parentheses; is this a symptom? It might be in a less chronically punctuational a patient (no man then), but I sometimes [often] do this when I’m just working up a sweat. I ain’t no fucking lightweight. I can cane it or leave it alone. Sometimes it’s Hemingway, every comma a concession. Then it’s tottering edifices of {inter}dependent clauses girdered for bear, bellying and sweating and cursing, snorting for escape into the sunnier uplands where the colon roams and ampersands spring from noun to noun, yet forced to circle forever in the …
[syntactical crash and collapse]

*   *   *

‘You sound like you’ve seen the Promised Land.’
‘Seen it? I’m looking at it right now.’

*   *   *

…dubious gloaming of umbrous question marks...

*   *   *

Something uniquely grounding about a bellyful of vegetable curry, though the added chillies bring fire, water and – later, doubtless, air – to the elemental party.
Speaking of which; there’s nothing about a one man party when the one man is as fascinating as this particular party, yessirree Bob Dobbs, ahoy there skipper, etc., mumbumbles to a stop

*   *   *

…such as those that occur over such conundra as whether half-wits have semi-colons, or who won the Apos Trophy in (kindly leave the stage, in fact, all of you, out of here this minute, this sentence is going to blow...

*   *   *

So what now at eight o’clock? More music, more drugs, more lying down? Nah, done that. A picture show would be nice. And I’d better set the video. Even my pupils can’t quite seem to make up their mind.
We can only have our own enlightenment.
Whoever hawks illumination (save for Mr Mazda and the equally blameless filament-flogging hordes who should accept their exemption from this argument with equanimity) does not have the precious quality he seeks to sell...
Black mocha coffee, dark bitter chocolate, marzipan; it’s been said before, but Mmmm. And a little light hashish to coat the throat with smoky-sweet lemon-biscuit-flavoured phlegm. There’ll be good hacking in the morning.
{How many of the real peak experiences of my life haven’t involved acid? Wedding day. St Hotspur’s Day. First (and only first) love. all that comes to mind, and goes}
Must go and programme the video. (subliminal subtext. Not only can I set the video, a rare talent in anyone over 40, but I can even do when flagrantly intoxicated and full of the wild roister)
And, having done that, must go and lie down – I’ve over-eaten.
No sweeter feeling/
 than simply /
giving in.
Smooth as butter. Rich as silk. Grease stains.

*   *   *

…or perhaps not…

*   *   *

Loud sound in an enclosed space can raise the temperature. Just me and the music and the ghosts it evokes. It’s crowded in here. And no refuge in the kitchen. Unless you count washing up as a refuge. Doesn’t ring my bath, that’s foreshore. Typical, always beaching.
Yesterday [name of male friend censored], recently and, with all fond hope, permanently sundered from [name of male friend's inamorata] on the brink of a disastrous matrimony, explained over the roast beef how he has taken up rowing (he first got into it after going to the rowing club to book their facitilities for the aforementioned narrowly avoided triumph of Romantic nonsense over good counsel). ‘Typical,’ I said. ‘No sooner does his relationship break up than he’s messing about with oars.’
Hotcha.

*   *   *

…oh bugger (noises off).