By the time I planted my ass down here and set up the computer, the ritual had been engaged and my head was already back in the contextual rut, inspiration evaporated almost completely by the time I’d actually sat my ass down in the fucking chair.
In an attempt to snap my head back in to prior context I jacked Neuromancer into MusicBee, roughly found my spot (running into Wage at the Chatsubo) and my brain struggled with the strange and sudden introduction of oil into water, trying to make some kind of sense out of the world-splitting violation of two kinds of context, minor universes mixing.
But the result might just be chaotic enough to establish a new kind of rut, to carve a new groove in my head.
My plan when I started walking out the door, or, well, towards it, was to go to walmart and buy some little cans of tomato paste and a few permutations of colored file cards.
The tomato paste is to repair the breathtaking heat of the batch of chili that’s currently evaporating on ‘keep warm’ in my kitchen. Probably did it a bit too heavy on the damned habaneros. Didn’t seem so at the time. Maybe it was the single bottle of Guinness or the single can of refried beans. Time will tell.
Then I got to the back door and felt the twitchiness come on before walking back to get my toy box.
“You’re going to walmart. Why are you bringing cigars?”
“I, I, I…yeah I know wtf you’re doing.”
“Oh fucking go on. Jesus.”
holds head in a futile attempt to stop it from literally cracking
I got to the back door.
“Well, if I’m going down there I should bring a notebook.”
Back to the office and I got my ‘analog notebook bag.’
Again to the back door.
Again with the twitching.
Back to the office to get my Timbuk2 laptop bag as well.
Breathing too heavily from my own twitchiness I stood there a second, trying to figure out what the fuck was going on in my head and what, if anything, it meant. Then, with both bags, a couple garbage bags and my toybox in my hand I checked for my keys and opened the back door…
to be met by a spider, about an inch and a half long, hanging right in front of my nose.
“WHAT the FUCK? Are you KIDDING ME?”
We both paused, looking at each other trying to figure out the next course of action.
I grabbed a can of fuckoff wasp or whatever it’s called from the windowsill and blasted the last aerosol spurt of chemical at him. He fell on the door jam, twitching a little, but not enough. Picking a direction it scrambled far too quickly, about a foot away, turned and started running back towards the house. I stomped my right foot on the hardwood, not on him, and he paused to assess the percussion. Then with my left foot I swept him to the right, off the edge of the back porch.
I retrieved my various packages and walked straight into an elaborate spiderweb, a staccato of swearing and hands flaring, full of garbage, technology, notebooks, and cigars.
A minute of regrouping later I was in the truck. I turned to come down the hill, rather than to the local walmart I opted for the one half a mile from Smokey.
I bought my 3×5 cards, not that I didn’t have a thousand already, a few cans of tomato paste and headed over here, to get a few words down.