Thursday, July 31, 2008

Reyka Vodka and My Mind

Reyka vodka, thou art the elixir of my soul. How could something elevate such a vagabond aesthete to such heights sublime? Ah! Reyka vodka, you quench my thirst. You are pure. You are a wonder. Reyka vodka, thou art my glacial lover.

It is off to Iceland; let's go by boat rocking drunkenly. Reyka vodka shall make us adventurous rogues, the heroes of the world, and we shall shall sail past the arctic circle but feel flames within our hearts. There can be no other country. Sweden is too plain; Russia is too large. Iceland is a country that makes you a man. Let's drink Reyka vodka and go berserkergang.

How can one not love the feeling of being tight? On Reyka being tight. When I am drunk, I am a buffoon; when sober, I am a bore. But when I am tight, ah! Reyka vodka true, I am a wonder to behold. Gone are the inhibitions. I am an animal inspired. I am unstoppable. I am one hell of a piece of ass and don't mind if you stare.

Come back and we shall go nude beneath the moonlight. I still have half a bottle by the salt lamp by the door. Dear Reyka vodka, please meet our new lover. Her name is unspoken. Let's keep it that way. Have a sip of my sensual landscape. My body is volcanic; come explore my lake
Mývatn. Pet my devil duck and explore my darkened heart.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

It all boils down to this

Woke at 6:00, said "Fuck this life," booked a flight to Iceland, ran a hard, brisk 5.25K.

Meditated on the balcony, dewy body glistening in the dawn. I shall spend the day with a bottle of Reyka because it gets me drunk but does not give me a headache.

Friday, July 4, 2008

Some words to fill a void

Since returning from the forest, my life has been clean. My head is clear. It is good and bad.

It is good because the nightmares have stopped. In my daily life, the things I experience are real rather than a mad amalgamation of fantasy and reality. But it is bad because the truth of my life is, often, frightening. I live in a ridiculous house; I drive a ridiculous car; I wear ridiculous clothes. I cannot help but feel I am a ridiculous man--a "pretentious asshat," as one reader has called me.

Like a teenager, tonight, I am vulnerable. I walk down the street with my head hung low. The jabs of your stares sting my pitiful heart. I am swimming in a sea of vague malaise with no sight of land.

If ever I make it back, perhaps I will go to "The Gap" and buy a hooded sweatshirt and a decent pair of jeans and wear them like the rest of the world. Or perhaps I will write my memoirs and put down in words the vague philosophy that drives me--a mixture of Plato, Thoreau, and Hemingway, spotted with misconceptions and strange delusions from origins unknown.

Or perhaps I just need a good night's rest. Or some friends--the kind that money can't buy.

Let's start tomorrow after wasting away the day with music, smoke, tears, and laughter.