Free Forming
Okay I am free-forming now as I may have finally run out of things to complain about! This blog started off as a place where I could talk about the process of going blind and getting blind drunk with a few Buddhist philosophies thrown in.
Somewhere along the way it seems to have turned into a place to dump negative thoughts. For Me, this is healthy - it gets them out of my head. Unfortunately, for you the reader, it gifts you these little turds to think about that you may not have considered before. As the drunk guy said after peeing on the rug... "Eh... sorry about that!".
I just finished reading a book called "Into The Wild" about a middle-class kid from the Washington subrbs who gives up everything he knows and owns (including his family), then heads off to the wilds of Alaska to commune with nature, he is found a few months later starved to death in the back of an abandoned bus.
It was a really well written book and it awakened a bunch of conflicting feelings in me about the main protagonist Chris McCandless. He seemed like a noble, if highly naive guy - borderline madman also! You want him to reach his goal but when he doesn't you kind of react with "Well, what a stupid fuck!". It's weird and although I finished the book a few days ago, I've been internally debating it ever since. Check it out.
We've had another winter storm blow through today no snow but the tempartures dropped from the mid 50's to below freezing within a few hours. Another strange strange weather front. As my Mum used to complain "You don't know wether to wear a jacket or not!".
"When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro" - Hunter Thompson
posted by Dave @ 4:48 PM
3 Comments
3 Comments:
I thought he died of eating a non-edible tuber of some type of plant(can't remember which one). Poisoned and all alone with no one to help him. What a way to go.
Maybe it was of starvation - if you're hungry you'll eat just about anything.
"Nevertheless, in this solemn moment comes a man, or monster, scrambling
from among the rock-hollows; and, shaggy, huge as the Hyperborean Bear,
hails me in Russian speech: most probably, therefore, a Russian Smuggler.
With courteous brevity, I signify my indifference to contraband trade, my
humane intentions, yet strong wish to be private. In vain: the monster,
counting doubtless on his superior stature, and minded to make sport for
himself, or perhaps profit, were it with murder, continues to advance; ever
assailing me with his importunate train-oil breath; and now has advanced,
till we stand both on the verge of the rock, the deep Sea rippling greedily
down below. What argument will avail? On the thick Hyperborean, cherubic
reasoning, seraphic eloquence were lost. Prepared for such extremity, I,
deftly enough, whisk aside one step; draw out, from my interior reservoirs,
a sufficient Birmingham Horse-pistol, and say, 'Be so obliging as retire,
Friend (_Er ziehe sich zuruck, Freund_), and with promptitude!' This logic
even the Hyperborean understands: fast enough, with apologetic,
petitionary growl, he sidles off; and, except for suicidal as well as
homicidal purposes, need not return.
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