Thursday, 16 February 2012

If Napoleon III sends his secret police after me, I don't know what I'll do ...

It'll be exciting, I know that. I need some excitement in my life. [Do I?] There's not much chance of it though, except in dreams. I mean, Louis-Napoleon and his thugs. (There might be some other excitement, if I'm lucky.) They're all dead. And Lautreamont's dead, and alive. And Rimbaud (dead, alive) lost a leg, of course. I wonder if he has it in the afterlife. I hope so. He was pissed off with all the hobbling around. You should read his letters. Very depressing!

If I'm lucky, there'll be some other kind of excitement. I need an adventure. [Do I?] I need to get away from my laptop, and my house, and just wander off somewhere. I could walk a million miles. But the further one travels, the less imagination one has - or, I don't know. I should stay at home. [Yes.] Close my eyes, and drift off. See how the other half live, the thought-forms. Oh, but I've seen it all before. The astral plane. Napoleon - the first one, the great one - gave me his telescope to watch angels and demons, fighting. Tens of thousands of them on a battlefield. (He's actually a pretty decent chap.) And I played a game of noughts and crosses with King Arthur. However, you get bored of it after a while. Not the game, the plane. Or maybe I'll fall asleep, and sleep forever. One long dream! What's the difference? Life is one long dream, isn't it? When are we going to wake up? Will we ever touch the ultimate reality? No more dreams! No more visions! Let's get our hands on some reality, yes? Or - 'No!'

No, no, no. Yes? I don't know why I'm getting you involved, dear reader. You're probably into banks and hedge funds and all the other jazz. I can't imagine you have much enthusiasm for touching the ultimate reality. I suppose it all depends on who you are. You're either one of "them" or one of us. I don't even know who's reading any more. You could be a grey banker or a multicoloured mystic child. How would I know? It doesn't really matter. This is personal anyway. You shouldn't be reading this. (And you might be a banker who's a mystic child. There are a few about. More than a few, in fact.) The problem with me is that I'm so open.

Excitement is overrated. At least, my sort is. Did I really enjoy those nights of chaos in my youth with a spinning head and shaking bones? Or was I scared out of my massive mind? Visions of hell! What do you think?! Thank God for my astrologer! That's all I'll say. (Well, not all.) He did the healing. Told me I was playing with fire. Where would I be without him - today? In the shit, no doubt. Exactly where I am now. Today! Where will I be: tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow? Who knows?! Character is destiny. But he described my angel to a tee! What am I supposed to think? And what am I supposed to do? He wasn't even fazed by the swastika on the palm of my hand. Well, he's a Hindu. Why would he have been put off by a swastika? It means good fortune. I was a Hindu for a time. I'd recommend it to anyone. A lovely selection of gods. Gods for all occasions!

I don't know if I'll ever get my mystical hands on any of that ultimate reality. It's very elusive stuff, you know. Maybe I should be content with the cold, dirty world. 'You're having a laugh, ain't ya?' No, dear reader, I can assure you I'm not. If I were a warrior in the world, no one and nothing would ever be able to stop me. Obviously, I'd need an iron will unencumbered by the words and images in my head. 'Oh, I don't like the sound of this!' Will you stop worrying?! Please! I haven't made a decision yet.

The question is: will I ever make a decision? Or will I just float on the waters of life, on, on, on, blown around by idiot winds?