Sometimes, only sometimes, you realise that the map you use to find your way around your mind is of equal size and complexity, and possibly even containing more layers and levels than the plane you try to exist upon at any given time.
That one we call reality. You might have noticed it.
I am nihilistic and twisty.
Sometimes there is a core of anger in me that rises with no reason at all. Self-hatred, futility, weakeness. Bitter fucking hate.
I hide it well. I take it away from those I care about. Or try to. Which is ridiculous because the only thing that can stop it is to be held until the anger has no fuel.
Sadly when I am like this, I don’t let anyone near me.
So instead of bothering people, instead of asking for help, I will drink, and pretend I am fine, and it will be buried, and squashed down, into that layer of silt at the bottom of my mind. God help me if if gets disturbed by some giant footstep some day.
Tasty beer. You will never leave me…
The original is unfaithful to the translation.
(Jorge Luis Borges)
Its quite a moon. I am a little lost in it. Not in a bad way, although the line between good and bad is a little blurry on nights like these… things just, are…
This is what I am drinking to keep the ghosts away:
Its the key ingredients of the Darkarita!
- A jigger of Sauza Tequila Blanco
- A small jigger (pony) of Cointreau
- A splash of Blue Curacao (for the darkness you know, plus drinking blue stuff makes me smirk)
- A healthy squoosh of fresh lime (about a third of a small lime but go with your tastebuds)
- A smidgen of lemon juice (just a brief squeeze)
- half teaspoon of palm sugar
- Coarse ground salt
Chuck everything but the salt in a blender, with ice, blast the hell out of it.
Rub lime juice around the rim of the glass, grind the glass into a saucer of salt so the rim is coated. Pour tasty goodness into glass. Sit back and be endarkened.
So now you know the secrets of my success. Ignore. Avoid. Hide in the cellar until they go away. Scraping fingers at handle, whispers, curses.
Its a waiting game. Its only when you’re relatively sane that you know that they do go away, eventually, and you just have to let it play out. The ghost dance in your head. Some of you will understand what I’m talking about, some of you won’t. It doesn’t matter. The divine mockery of words…
And if you saw that post title in a feed reader, no doubt you were thinking, ‘oh god, not another meandering laundry list of sorrow…
But no! See me be hip to be erm, square…is that a thing, or did Huey Lewis just make that up? I don’t know, but nonetheless, I can play too…
(I wonder what happened to old Huey, and indeed, his News? Anyone seen them recently? Perhaps they trobadour at your local hole in the wall bar, somewhat craggier, and less carefree, playing for beer, still knocking out ‘the power of love’ albeit without those top notes…good lord these are the parentheses that would not die)
So, without further ado (or any more Huey Lewis asides) I present my Simpsons alter ego, Dark Simpson. And his cat, Sparky.
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