...things always get a bit crazy for me these days. At the moment I'm taking a break from pounding away at a paper I have to write for Shambhala Meditation class to write whatever I feel like. I have a french press full of black coffee, a full pack of cigarettes, there's sludge in the streets, and snow in the trees and in beautiful patches of sparkling white on the ground outside my grimy apartment window. My roommate is asleep (no sharing a bowl tonight--For those who don't know, I'm referring to Colorado medical weed) and there are some people talking and chuckling in the parking lot. I have to get up nine to be in the recording studio by ten to work on some of my songs, mainly "Shake Shake Mamma" with a couple of friends on piano, guitar, and tambourine. I'm on vocals, guitar, and harmonica of course. I recently had two poems published in two different anthology books and one in Naropa's magazine The Sycamore.
I've been praised, ignored, passed out, eaten out, frozen, hungry, broke, unemployed, employed, asked out, lied to, fucked, pushed, carried, cried on, fallen on, stranded, found, supported, aborted, and on my knees for various reasons with or for various people. I've been searched by the police on a false claim I had coke, I've gotten stopped and IDed by the police for drunkenly making out with a stranger in an empty street at 3am, lost my keys, taken mushrooms three times this semester, and this weekend I plan to hippie-flip (take mushrooms and acid at the same time) for the first time whilst dressed as 1970s Bob Dylan. And how the holy hell am I doing such a good job in all my classes? The only answer I can think of is...I was just made for this. This is what I was born to be like someday. I work and work and then I lose my mind until I've had my fill, sleep it off in one night, then start working again. It's quite a perplexing yet deliriously entertaining system.
The best part is, if I died right now I could honestly say that I've lived a very eventful and full life, despite how short it has been. Of course I'm not planning any funerals any time soon (but just in case, if I do die in my sleep tonight or on some bus station bench this weekend, I want it known that there'd better be free unlimited Jack Daniels and hash for all at my funeral, along with bad-ass tshirts advertising the event).
Call me Boulder's Boy; living, breathing, occasionally hallucinating, and hopefully not destined for doom or death by over-indulgence. God help me. If only I wanted him to...