Scrap from notebk

Trips to Purpose are brief and expose, in addition to my subconscious reflection, the facts of me and my family I've been exposed and signed on as explanation, pointedly researched like for a paper thesis, celebrated and clung on to, accepted, now as traction for this big blank world, and outright fabricated. Fabrication? Isn't that just like learning; a clean slate; what we see or hear is truthful or not, in the end, every instance, we decide?

Smiles and excesses; when I left the commune, the monastary, the attempt, driven, to live and prosper in killer New York City; when all of these are over, at the point nearing when life, this life, comes inching back like a big fat overarching tree while you roll forward, continuing... What comes of it but a re-run.

TV is good. Real good, these days at keeping me occupied, actdive in anticipation, the punch line, the mystery-answer, the real, the fake, the real-fake cannibalizing its own way, the gruesome, the ugly, the shocking. It tittilates me!

Every night, I re-think about this world thus far and what this life's brought me. It ends with that damn TV on, and it goes on into the night beyond me. It outlasts my energy, the mortal sessions for sleep and I come away with a few statements that satisfy my War, little battles won in the worldwide, timeless face that I stare at, and it will never know me.