DariaDisKrates

Slap-happy Easter boys and girls, but I have to tell you, I'm not feeling it. Perhaps if I was a church goer, a true believer and a holy-roller, I might. But as it stands, I'm still agnostic. I'm not one to look down my nose on religious types. In fact I envy them. But blind faith is a little too much to ask of me I'm afraid. Maybe I've been nudged along by the hand of God now and again, but have been too dense to know it. We humans are easily blind to the miraculous. I guess it's all too much for our brains to register.

It's day two of the Great Dry-Out, but I don't intend on pontificating on it too long. One thing I know is that there's nothing better than a clear head, but clear heads get filled with rubbish pretty quick. Alcohol is like an air freshner for the brain. It covers up the psychological funk for a little while, but thats all it does, cover it up.

There's really no reason to write today, other than it's become a bad habit, or a good one. I'm still not too sure. It's just a good way to unwind. I worked all night and now it's late afternoon, so I think I'll read and crash. At the moment I'm reading The Coming Of Conan The Cimmerian, a collection of the original tales by creator, Robert E. Howard. They were written in the twenties and thirties and were featured in the early pulps like Weird Tales and others. I've never been a sword and sorcery buff. I liked my existential nightmare books like The Trial, Nausea and Notes From Underground. At the time I was reading those, I was too snobby to read something so seemingly frivolous and Sherlock Holmes or Conan. All these years I was missing some cleverly written yarns. I'm not quite as pretentious about these things now. I guess I could thank Tolkien, and even the Lord Of The Rings flicks to make these things legit in my mind. Another thing I dig about these early Conan stories are that they were written in a time when everyone wasn't walking on eggshells, and we didn't have to be so politically correct about everything. They are horribly violent stories and more than one category of people would find them offensive and would probably want them banned, the hypocrites they are. To be honest, it's refreshing reading, and the writing style has a brutal economy to it. Each sentence feels like a swing of the blade. Beautiful stuff really.

Anyway, I'm rambling and am very tired. I can always tell because every noise pierces through me like a knife. The wind is blowing my plastic adirondack around on the balcony, and the sound of it almost seems to rattle the entire place. I become like Roderick Usher when I'm beat like this; every sense becomes highly acute. So I'll close this entry clumsily right...here. Surrender to the void!