Running Down

For the sake of argument let's say I agree with you. That's how I usually avoid upset. Not making a point. A by-product of not giving a shit what anyone else thinks. A main consideration in living the life I do, is that I don't have to compromise very much of my time. Four o'clock in the morning and I'm reading David Bainbridge on balanoculture (acorn eaters) among coastal California native tribes. My mouth is dry, so I get just a splash of Irish whiskey, to wet the palette, smoke some local herb, roll a coarse Kentucky tobacco into the semblance of a cigaret. I don't have to ask permission, I don't have to be twenty feet away from the door, I don't have to dress accordingly. I prefer a solitary life, precisely because there is no mediation. Me and whatever gods there are. After a lifetime of working with other people, what I want to do now is just read and write. I'm still drawn to the combined arts, the Wrack Show, the Emily Project, though I do absolutely hate the fucking bureaucracy necessary. Some fat-assed office manager controlling the flow of cash. The very idea that I'd have to get angry. I thought we'd agreed we wanted to do this. Does Trish, in fact, run the museum? I just need to know. I like this job, but I could go somewhere else. Ply my trade in Phoenix. A nice phrase, I like the intent. I've lived here longer than I've ever lived anywhere, but that doesn't mean I can't move. Fuck a bunch of inertia. I let my anger boil over the top, and I'm not even sorry, fuck a bunch of punctuation. What is a museum, what does it stand for? I don't know, and I'm not sure I care. The whole idea of working with a community. Most people are full of shit. Nothing makes any sense. Better off living in a tree-tip pit and not giving a damn. Pardon the alliteration. A shopping cart from Kroger, collecting cans. I amuse myself.