ritual machinations

I have this wonderful fantasy where I make believe a drowning. submerged in a naked stillness not ever fathomable, it is a directionless cold underwater dream scape where my body dissolves and I am left alone with the nothing that is the quiet chill. I don't mean this to be depressed or even childishly morbid, but I cannot stop it from being asinine. I merely felt like sharing. and though these terrific subversions of peace have no specific origins, I think they have something to do with the cycle of detox and retoxification set forth by my habitual drinking. or maybe it's thoughts of the womb. but I have only known one vagina to be so cold and it certainly was not my mother's. interpret this as you must. and then abandon the thought to die. I advise you in this with certainty because I know there is a point when the fantasy no longer matters and the breath that left me with the shock of the cold is no longer necessary, my physical presence subdued, I am a sound suspended in a black fractured light. but even alone, set adrift beneath the surface of the water, this is nothing more than hardened silliness, a self-contained little me obsessed with masturbation. thankfully, however, it is never pure escapism because there is always an underlying need to return for one last breath of myself. at least for now.

it's funny. as I look back over all of this, I cannot ignore what reads like so much sadness. to be entirely honest, the idea of being underwater is one of my fondest thoughts, and it is a flight of my imagination I find myself returning to again and again. as such, it is also the source of my greatest complaint regarding new orleans. besides piss water hotel pools, there is not one god damn body of living water to dive into that wont give you syphilis or some other god awful virus. and this includes the gulf, which is easily the most disappointing body of water I have ever encountered. now you may say to yourself, jesus, nate, don't you think that sentiment is a bit dramatic? damn straight it is, but all melodrama is based on some note of truth and I am not far off the pitch. fuck it.

I don't know if any of you remember or even knew in the first place, but doritos are disgustingly filling. I used to eat them because I was painstakingly high. I eat them now because they are familiar and cheap. call it love or desperation or even super nasty processed laziness, I don't care ... but know that, far as I can tell, they have not changed one fucking bit in two decades, which is more than I can boast. and what's worse, is that you could probably find a bag from 20yrs ago just to prove that I am right.

I forced myself to write this. sorry you had to read it, but I got tired of looking at pictures.

ps. k-mac, my giant footrest of a dictionary fell apart again.