yes, all of your names i have forgotten, all of them
having a quiet snuck long pull of tequila at about 6:30 this evening i was struck by a realization. in the times when i try and recollect and gather that which, as a writer, i am condemned to labor at, i am always stumbling at nostalgia. there are scenes which, without my choosing have become ingrained, but as with any artistic endeavour, that which sneaks in without notice is that which really is worth accolades, because what is art but the worship of the manifestation of the unconscious? whatever... being male and prone to alcoholism does nothing but feed this unfortunate combination of circumstance and personal weakness. i feel like i invest so much energy in being hyper observant, enshrining trivial details and living as presently as my own analytical mind and roving eyes can manage that i don't ever really have a decent grasp of what being truly wistful and nostalgic entails. perhaps i am still too young. i don't know if it is true at all, but i have my suspicions that using my mind this way has kept me alive in the face of what has definitely been a potentially fatal incident strewn life, but there is little comfort taken from this when i realize that 65 percent of what i actually commit to memory is simply fodder for future masturbation. basically, what am i using this brain for if not to prove people wrong, pat myself on the back and fuck?
it's a shame the only reasons to gather large groups of distant friends and acquaintances together are marriage and wakes, it's easier to retain things when so many others can record it too..