Both Dali and Genet were irredeemably and effectively schizophrenic prior to their attachments/accomplishments, their saving grace, coming about to rescue them…In the case of Genet, he had to be sainted by no less then Sartre, and had to have his murder sentence commuted by the French Academy to avert life in prison. How divided a soul was he? Chist’s divided sould, his self crucifiction is not so obvious, but Nietzche, the ant-Christ had a lot more tools to play with, as far as presedence. Madness for Nietzche is a tretch, half mad maybe.
Bob’s and my conversations do not get deep into philosophy or literature. The beer finds us on a gut level of life with losses. Country music used to play to that; it doesn’t anymore.
The old joke goes–I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy.
well sounds good, Ir, casual leit-motif, me, last night i wannabe honest, out like ligthing with moonshine, almost as devastating as white ligthning, really wanted to slap myself on the back, reeeeel hard, but my arms didn’t go around my torso, couldn’t reach it.
guess, condemned to a sort of kts kind of depth, into the dungeon. -but it’s ok, snce it’s all the same, really, they meet in the virtual world, ----which is as real as the original, hence i am assured. (the devil made me do it)
“Malt does more than Milton can
To justify God’s ways to Man.” —A.E. Housman
Steer clear of the white lightening, my friend. I say this from the few brain cells I have left.
…Thanks for the advice, Ir on the effects of 100 proof, or any booze, it’s only medicinally advantegous in times of the incomprehensibly, and unavoidably the only, and the last solution. Beer, then only chases the dreams left.
A bard once sang thus: ‘Loose Your dreams and you will loose your mind’.
At that point, not compensating, is worse then that, it is death; of the soul. The late Allen Ginsburg once said, 'if You drink, drink at home, alone.
I’m no longer wild and crazy. I miss that. “All my rowdy friends have settled down.”–Hank Williams Jr. but–the stories I could tell! Beer and nostalgia go hand in hand.
In the teeth of I hurt or I am lonely all philosophical considerations become null. Singing of the state of affairs seems to help. Finding a like-minded spirit helps.
It does, yet one tends to think that the early illusions work like Capital, they feed of the gifts which offer diminished return, as it was fodder, and most of it is wasted. (on the young).
Then the natural progression is disillusionment, unless…
The proper mix is found, a drink of the elixir, the manna, with the happy hour crowd’s tolerance.
Bob and I sing sadness. Will you join us, Jesus? Have a beer on us. Your life story was sad. And you, unlike David, did not cry out for vengeance. Neither do we.
The sad song is never again,
Not the vague it might have been.
No longer able to drink a beer
Because I cannot stop at one
Means more to Bob than me, I fear,
Means something I alone have done.
I would not have our friendship die
Because I needed to be dry.