Why I want to shave most of my hair off again

My car wouldn’t start today after work. I planned to write this anyway. Plans like these are good ones, because nothing short of paralysis and death can really stop you from writing (I say that knowing I printed out a story and stared at it for three days before picking it up, but that is just will). I feel like a reckoning is on the way. America needs one of her own. I don’t mean religiosity or even karma. But nothing is eternal. Everything will change by the time I am gone. Maybe our personal shifts aren’t random (if you are reading this blog, you are probably having one). Some things won’t let you slip back into stupidity ever again. We live for those things. Together we break the bonds of thought control, denial, national vampirism. I gave up TV, and this is what’s becoming of me. I spent America’s birthday talking to 12 year old girls and drinking beers in the sun with a puppy. I guess it’s ok to devote your life to silly things if they are true. Someone out there wants to read a short novel on the erotic life of Archie Leach. Am I right? It is where my knowledge leads me, and I have to do something with that place. It’s inspiring to read a Hollywood gossip book from the 1980s and see that the author has not let the opportunity slip by to stick it to Reagan. Take any opportunity you have, sir. I salute you. Like David Wojnarowicz. (Who I love, even though he doesn’t resemble RonBohn like Dennis Cooper does, but he reminds me of Karen.) This is his Arizona in ‘Being Queer in America: a journal of disintegration’:

“Sometimes I get seized by a discrete sensation, something like a small madness where the senses reel behind the eyes. In the midst of crowds or in immense landscapes where the sense of sky is almost deafening, great big cracks in the earth like dusty photographs of lightning. I carry silence like a blood-filled egg, ready to drop it into someone’s hands. When I was small and it would rain I thought it rained all over the world but now I don’t think so. Riding out here over the dirt roads, the day opened up like a kid falling into sunlight; sprawling out on a green lawn tasting milk on his lips. Right this minute I could tip right down into the deep of that canyon, jump from rock to rock effortlessly, thinking bird thoughts weightless like death. Smack my face against that tree, like the bird against the front of my car. The hot sun as my witness: blind sun, blind me, blond bones, bleeding hills -- put thistles and mud on the wounds, roll in the dust like a coydog, scream into those anthills, run fast without looking, close those eyes, shut those curtains, high sun, high strung, big snakes in the road, big desert, big sky, clouds zoom by…”

Watch: Hearts and Minds, Fahrenheit 9/11, The Fog of War, The Hour of the Wolf, City of God, Our Lady of the Assassins, Sherman’s March
Read: The CIA’s Greatest Hits, Close to the Knives, Hollywood Babylon II
Music: Silvio Rodriguez, Skip James