Not At All What I Intended To Write

My mind is sort of working on overdrive today - a lot of concepts swirling around all willy nilly; a lot of monkey mind chatter.

I thought about math as language, trying to give concrete value to abstract ideas. Music does that as well. Language does it, all these silly words trying to nail down specifics from the ether. And how any concept invented by us will be fraught with the same fallibilities no matter how much our brains want us to believe in the perfection.

Our brains seek out the order in the chaos. Everywhere you look in nature, you can find this calm and pristine order, but I think we're missing half the picture by not allowing ourselves to see the mad chaos in it all as well. As of this morning, I think this may be the great lesson I've pulled out of dabbling in hallucinogens, getting a peek at that chaos.

I thought about a line from Rest Your Head by The Wrens: I hate the change, but I love the effect it's bringing on.

Then I thought about William Burroughs and how I had been strongly attracted, not to William Burroughs' writing, but to the idea of William Burroughs' writing. There was that rebellious affection for an outlaw soul, a fighting of normalcy by proxy. I would like to go back and re-read Naked Lunch, re-read The Ticket That Exploded and try to see them simply as books and not as underground culture talking points. I however do not think that these are picks to be reading to Bif's stomach...

I feel like some sort of windstorm picked up inside my head and started knocking loose thoughts that were clinging desperately, some of them moving too fast still to grab onto. I need a quiet place away from this frustration factory of work to still my mind a little. Or I need a bottle and a partner in crime with a desire for some mutual, intellectual masturbation.


Rocktober song of the day: Queen Bitch by David Bowie.