Spell of the conch shell

Sometimes I cannot figure out if I have much pride or not. It is always difficult to calculate, maybe because it is nebulous, because sometimes I think you can have these symptoms, but they do not equivalate to the diagnosis.

Yesterday I consumed a bowl of cereal, three gins and tonics, a 99 apples shot, a tequila shot, a bahama mama, a magic hat #9, and some other alcohols that I do not recall. Of course, I ended up in a fetal position in the following locations: 1. beneath a foosball table, 2. a lawn, 3. a foreign sofa, 4. the backseat of a car, 5. another more familiar couch.

I also threw up many times, first while forcibly inserting my finger into my throat at location #2, then into a plastic bowl given to me by a friendly anonymous drunk, dressed/undressed in traditional Maori garb and tatts at location #3, and finally into a flimsy long plastic bag like the kind that newspapers come in when it is raining, given to me by Erin at location #4, and which accompanied me also to location #5 and until such time as the rays of morning re-appeared to assess my damaged, temporarily un-nebulous pride.

I kept thinking of what Al was saying to me as he was pulling me up from my comfortable, rain-soaked location #2, which was something condescending about how much money I made, I think, even though it doesn't make much sense in retrospect, except for him being a socialist and all. Anyways, real or fantasy, it affirms my belief that Al secretly dislikes me for continually infiltrating his circle, which is a fun circle, but is a circle which probably ultimately does not have much patience for pansies of my sort of ilk.

Oh, by the way all of this happened whilst wearing a sort of tropical shirt, because the idea was to have a luau, even though it was Middleport, and the sky was foreboding and stormy. This also explains why there were anonymous drunks in Maori garb, shirtless and tattoed.

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Lately I am ready to go away from here and not have any whereabouts for awhile.

Also yesterday I taught myself to play a song called It's A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall, which was by Bob Dylan and requires a capo. In 2037 I will be the crotchety old man butchering the song in the corner by the window, while you decide to get your futuristic cappuccino to go, instead.

"The guy who lives next door to me paints, and he's doing it well, so I don't really feel the need."

i am tim and i am very into music. i know about pink floyd, and i am sad about syd barrett. syd barrett is a very sad story, i think. from what i hear, after his brain had drowned in the catalysts, he could not tell heaven from hell or blue skies from pain or a green field from a cold steel rail.

maybe it is worse to see a friend around who is not really there anymore, than to just never see them again.

at the beginning of 1967 he was leading the band and by the end of 1967 he was on the stage, motionless and staring into space in the middle of songs. blankest stares.

i cannot claim to be a huge syd barrett fan, but i know some of the songs and like them. the last one with pink floyd is called jugband blues, and it seems like a silly song if you were ignorant of the story, but if you're not then it seems very depressing.