Slow madness coming on here in Anchorage. The winter is sweeping in and I am dwelling here purgatorially, no aim, no trajectory, save leaving. I wonder if this is what the Rapture is like. As in: remaining. Anyway. But here I am. Again. It's me, again, maniacally bashing my forehead repeatedly into the ribs of a long dead burro, like some depraved lunatic, somewhere in some god-forsaken desert region of the soul. A burro I delivered personally, so many years ago. Jesus. This hideous trek for money. Roll the boulder up the hill, Wirtala. Bellow and belch and snarl and gnash. Right up there, way up into that firmament. Then chase it all deliriously down the other side. Repeat, ad infinitum. The only latin I know- or at least the only bit that matters. That goddamn foul rock. Scorched with my own blood, cum and bile. Smeared Chunks of my skull, brain tissue. My strewn, dilapidated psyche. But within the repetition of it all there are these goddamn slivers, little fucking miracles that justify each foray. You know, moments you couldn't live without, etc..Little diamonds buried in heaps of dread waste. And yeah, it's all hyperbole, a bit at least. It's not like I was born into brothels or given a Kalashnikov at age 11. But still, this place. Anchorage. What a goddamn madhouse. What a slagheap. Refuge of the insane. Where civilization comes to water's edge. This place. It's equally a state of mind I guess. My state of mind. Somehow, this town and I deserve each other. This context just slowly burns me to ash. And every year, it just gets more formidable, the tasks that much more absurd.The principals that much more fucking retarded.
I'm listening to Nick Cave at the moment, so please pardon the drama. Maybe I'll switch that up. You Hardworlders understand, of course. I'll go for some Major Lazer. Time to switch this shit up.
Meanwhile my libido threatens to snap my spine in two. Or maybe it's my ego. Sometimes I can't differentiate between 'em. Perhaps yoga- It's supposed to help pretty much anything, right? Laughing Cow. Belching Weasel. Wait, those are either weird cheeses or bad punk bands. But, maybe, they are my positions.
Hm. File those away.
Finishing up the work season is like coming out of a powerful hallucination. Like, you're right there, in aisle 11 at the grocery store, stark naked, and you have no idea how you got there. A stirring of pubes in the wrong palace? It all seemed so logical, so completely rational to be there, right up to that moment. Then, poof! You're right there, looking at a bottle of V8 juice, so unnaturally nude. Totally exposed, under those flourescent lights.
So yeah. I am the steward and last remaining resident of the Early Riser, the latest out of a series of work flop-houses for whoever has the disorganization and ill-wisdom to commit to a summer up here. Always alternately excruciating, revealing. It's an interesting experiment, the matching up of different individuals, the clashes, the new symmetries and the berzerko- delirious consumption that salves the brain but also contributes to what amounts to a vicious psycho/physiological tailspin. It's kinda like recruiting a crew to man a pirate ship. Every summer. Whole universes of people, every single one it's own weird bird. So this go-around we had The Early Riser, named by Covey Quist. (Delicate nod toward Utah.)
It's a lot like Vietnam, I'd wager. Not the band. No death of course. And it has a definate end. But it is a tour of sorts. A Tour of Duty. Alright. Maybe duty is inaccurate, too. Goddamnit.
All these inaccuracies.
Hold on. Gotta pour another drink. Ok. Whiskey and water. You're all welcome to the bar, by the way. More than enough for all.
Alright. Thanks. On to Ghostland Observatory. It's got The Spirit. And, weirdly, TOTALLY WEIRDLY, they're playing here in Anchorage. Shit, maybe tonight even. For a mere $35.
Yeah. Alright. again. Getting a bit drunk here. Focus, Wirtala! What else is there. An anecdote, perhaps? An experience? An illustration. Yes. Must provide proof. It's on to Beirut now.
Oh yeah, and all that other stuff. Music. The Walkmen have been good to me as of late. I know, I know. The singer. Try out You and Me. It's the record that turned me. What else. Oh yeah. Lee Hazlewood. Cowboy in Sweden. Believe it. Relieve it. Bereave it. Retrieve it. Castanets. Good stuff. Phopherscent. True. And then there's Covey's findings. Planning to Rock. Yes. Major Lazer, belieeeeeeeve it. Glass Candy. And Beyonce. Courtesy of Laura Williamson. 'All the Single Ladies'. So there's that. That magical, catchy fare. It was all the rage around here. Covey's a strong influence. Kinda awesome. Mormon! Awesome!
Into Eno's Ambient Music now. Soon into Bowie's Low. This drunk is stabalizing. Maybe, just maybe, I can jot down something actually substantive. So. I just don't have anything demonstrative right now. I'm terrible at relaying actual happenings, anyway. Consider yourself spared.
I get into these contexts. I engage in their particular, their very peculiar logic. So different, one to the next. Contexts. Jesus. I get attached. I never want to let go. Even the shit situations. Like Alaska. Christ. I find something to hold onto. Getting older, man. Too aware of things. Don't want to let go of The Now. Alright. Another drink. More whiskey. More time.
But New York is another context, and I will land there in some strange state and engage. Mememe. Christ. This Ego. This motherfucking monster. Right outta Monster planet. Into Calla now. Don't think it's doing me right. Too dramatic. Switch it up.
Alright. Live a little bit longer, Wirtala. Blog. Anchorage. Pertinent subject matter. There's not a whole lot more to it. Wrapping this thing up. Just isolation. But more. Like it all opens up a primal fissure. Meaning, purpose, etc... Here for money. Money for life and it's grand pursuit of It's Riches. Taking part in The Great Pageant.
Man, I just wander around this place. Muted fugue state. Giant bottle of Vodka protruding from the trash can. Another husk. Bygone purpose, bygone meaning. Speaking of vodka, I got more. Ready? Cool, just give me a second. It's The Magnetic Fields now. I think we all like those guys
I'm just grasping I guess. For the next step. Just not sure. You fuckers know me. I am no mystery.
Christ, going sideways. The real flounder! Capsizing! Here's to the Hardworlders! Fuck it all!
Mogwai now.
Yeah. I got all dressed up. Western shirt and everything. Didn't make it anywhere.
And here I am. Slackjawed, eyes gazing. Trying to muster everything and anything to get this place ok. This Riser. Anybody would tell me that I have so much ahead of me. Jesus. Just look at it. The future. But I'm fucking mired. Always goddamned so mired. Attached. Loyal like a dog. A buffalo heading to the edge, horns aimed, mind long fixed.
But I know I'll get it going. Right? Onward into the new scheme. The new logic. New paradigm. New romance. All that weird shit. Jesus. But this stupid apartment. It needs my attention. Kinda desperately.
Come on Wirtala! Come on Graybill! Stanfield! Off we go! Goddamnit! Into the fucking fray!
