Which I guess have a common theme, and the theme is sex, or, to be more precise, the clichés of sex, which, right at the moment, and to be wholly frank, I view with an ambiguity that is close to visible. As my emotional life grinds on, like some grim panzer retreat from a metaphoric Moscow – only with mercifully better weather – the inevitable culmination of the sexual cliché has become a matter of such utter predictability, that, all too frequently, it’s instigation takes on an inert pointlessness. Alcohol has much the same effect. I would like to be protractedly drunk, but the hangover would kill me. Slowly and with pain.
We could look at it another way, however. Perhaps here in the Shaolin Temple of Rock & Roll – among the Cirque du Dreamseekers* – we search for the original cliché with the wholly unexpected twist. (Between walking on Zigzag rice paper, perceiving Elvis in a potato chip, and snatching the pebble from my hand, grasshopper.) Now wouldn’t that be something? A blow for the oxy-morons!
* more later.
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