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Jan. 15th, 2019 11:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
evening_tsarI feel oddly compelled to post something here, though nothing overtly pressing to say. Perhaps it's the winter. Perhaps it's the midnight jitters.
They do strike. Last night, I awoke on the witching hour, and compulsively reached for my bedside lamp. For what might have been two or possibly five minutes I struggled to turn it on, before I realized I was fiddling with the wastebasket. . .
Listening to "King Ghizard and the Lizard Wizard", an Australian psychedelic rock outfit that reminds me of Hawkwind. No flower power here: this one's about a newly born Frankenstein monster who's vomit eventually consumes the universe. (This sequence is shorter than I rememebered). The vinyl is decorated accordingly. . .
Vinyl is of course the only proper way to listen to such music. Streaming just wouldn't have the same hypnotic effect. Burried deep in my basement apartment. . . shouting out into the dark. . .
I should be sipping whiskey at this time. It would fit with the late night motif. But my stomach's been telling me lately that it doesn't appreciate whisky anymore - it rebels when it's introduced, burning and boiling and wrenching inside. It feels like it collapses in on itself. With the existence of all manner of technology these days, I would have thought it simple enough to investigate the cause of such convulsions; and yet no physician seems able to ascertain that anything out of the ordinary is going on. A history Pancreatitis and H pylori does not unduly alarm them. Truly I am an anomaly beyond the grasp of medical science.
Instead I munch on chocolates provided by a well meaning student. This is something else I know I should reduce dramatically if I want to live beyond fifty - but it is compulsive. The sugar rush is needed. It's mental food, comfort food, distraction food, short bursts of immediate sensory stimulus. A salt rush would work just as well, but it's probably worse in the long run. An alcoholic rush would work quite well (hence the whisky), but that would probably be worst of all, so chocolate it is. I understand marijuanna is legal in this province now, but I have no desire to stink up my apartment and possibly burn it down. Bits of pita bread might work, but the shamans and witch-doctors have thrown out the possibility of gluten intolerance (without the benefit of testing), so that's out too.
I think I may content myself with some warm water. . .
Bedtime reading is "The War that Ended Peace" by Margaret McMillan, which would be hilarious if it weren't so heart-breaking. I am once again awestruck by mens' stubborn insistence on slaughtering each other. Little has changed it seems, though I'd be very happy to be proven wrong, should anyone take issue with the contention. . .
And the one overarching fact that beats me over the head like a coconut each time, is that, without exception, so it seems, the people who most wanted War, and did most to make it happen, were under no circumstances EXPECTED TO FIGHT IN IT.
Blackaddar put it best:
GEN. MULCHIT: I'll be right there behind you!
BLACKADDAR: Thirty miles behind you. . .
They do strike. Last night, I awoke on the witching hour, and compulsively reached for my bedside lamp. For what might have been two or possibly five minutes I struggled to turn it on, before I realized I was fiddling with the wastebasket. . .
Listening to "King Ghizard and the Lizard Wizard", an Australian psychedelic rock outfit that reminds me of Hawkwind. No flower power here: this one's about a newly born Frankenstein monster who's vomit eventually consumes the universe. (This sequence is shorter than I rememebered). The vinyl is decorated accordingly. . .
Vinyl is of course the only proper way to listen to such music. Streaming just wouldn't have the same hypnotic effect. Burried deep in my basement apartment. . . shouting out into the dark. . .
I should be sipping whiskey at this time. It would fit with the late night motif. But my stomach's been telling me lately that it doesn't appreciate whisky anymore - it rebels when it's introduced, burning and boiling and wrenching inside. It feels like it collapses in on itself. With the existence of all manner of technology these days, I would have thought it simple enough to investigate the cause of such convulsions; and yet no physician seems able to ascertain that anything out of the ordinary is going on. A history Pancreatitis and H pylori does not unduly alarm them. Truly I am an anomaly beyond the grasp of medical science.
Instead I munch on chocolates provided by a well meaning student. This is something else I know I should reduce dramatically if I want to live beyond fifty - but it is compulsive. The sugar rush is needed. It's mental food, comfort food, distraction food, short bursts of immediate sensory stimulus. A salt rush would work just as well, but it's probably worse in the long run. An alcoholic rush would work quite well (hence the whisky), but that would probably be worst of all, so chocolate it is. I understand marijuanna is legal in this province now, but I have no desire to stink up my apartment and possibly burn it down. Bits of pita bread might work, but the shamans and witch-doctors have thrown out the possibility of gluten intolerance (without the benefit of testing), so that's out too.
I think I may content myself with some warm water. . .
Bedtime reading is "The War that Ended Peace" by Margaret McMillan, which would be hilarious if it weren't so heart-breaking. I am once again awestruck by mens' stubborn insistence on slaughtering each other. Little has changed it seems, though I'd be very happy to be proven wrong, should anyone take issue with the contention. . .
And the one overarching fact that beats me over the head like a coconut each time, is that, without exception, so it seems, the people who most wanted War, and did most to make it happen, were under no circumstances EXPECTED TO FIGHT IN IT.
Blackaddar put it best:
GEN. MULCHIT: I'll be right there behind you!
BLACKADDAR: Thirty miles behind you. . .
