Night in —-. Can smell diesel fumes rising up all the way to a third-floor apartment in a suburban area. This town has the worst air in America, hands down. The springtime is the worst. Alchemy in the air, a mix of stale pheromones, pollen, sweat and air pollution. The effect is like a cheap drug, haze without euphoria. Goddamned city’s seeming old hat and worthless. Your life can leave you in a place like this. Blink and two years go by. You barely remember. The mood’s too into the working-class grind. You gotta grind to be, and that’s the way to go if you’re ready to let your life pass you by. I’m not, and I’m leaving first chance I get.
These aren’t the times of yore. Keep reading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and the other great road novels. You’d have to be blind to miss the change. Thompson himself wrote about it, about the death of the road man, the traveling worker, the traveling anybody really. You’re encouraged to be static, rooted. That part’s nothing new. But everything’s a racket in this horrid new world order. You gotta find an IN somewhere, and if you find one you’re probably lucky. Everything’s gone to ground, every industry’s either there or delusional in its supposed immunity. We’re all teetering on the edge of a cliff here. In or out, everybody’s heading on down. You don’t die down there. The US isn’t going anywhere. It just all becomes a shouting match. I’m loathed to admit that I’ll probably be as much a part of it as anyone.
It’s a bizarre thing to realize you can’t meditate outdoors because the air’s too damned polluted. This being true and most psychedelics being illegal do not belong together in the same logical framework.
My 27th birthday is the Saturday after next. The only sane route after nearly 20 years of dadaist economics is to ride the goddamned wave. Keep your body lean. Pollute your mind with chemicals if you wish, but not with television. Objectivity is only subjectivity + authority; or so says vid-eaten and restless.