Posted in Writings

Aug the Fourth – Untitled Bigfoot Project (10/224)

Aug the Fourth

Good morning, Journal. Hope you slept well, because I slept like a fucking ROCK. I legitimately didn’t know what day of the week it was when I woke up, and honestly, I still don’t know what day of the week it is. Granted, it hasn’t been terribly long since I crawled out of my restful haze, but still. I slept good, ‘man. Really, really well. Haven’t slept that well in a long time, to be honest.

My last journal – the one I kept while I was at school – caught many and many’a’page about my awful sleeping habits, especially when I’d run out of weed. I can’t sleep for shit when I don’t have weed to smoke. Can’t really think straight, either. No appetite. I get really sweaty… actually… hold on, I might have just realized something.

Back at school I was a fiend for the green, Journal, it was the center of my reality–… hold that thought.

I’ve noticed that, with human beings, for the most part, our lives are based around one of two things: sex, or drugs. The ultimate vices, the two opposite ends of the spectrum. On the left we have physicality, we have corporeal reality, we have more carnal desires; on the right we have metaphysicality, we have incorporeal reality, we have more spiritual desires. It’s odd to think about it the first time you do so, but most everybody falls into this net I’ve just cast: at the end of the day, when you get back to your artificial cave after a long chunk of time spent grinding your nose down to the cartilage, what is the one thing you want more than anything else? Sex. A bowl. An escape from the memories, a veritable consciousness reset brought on by something hot, whether that heat comes from another human’s body or from a bundle of burning plant matter. All humans want the heat, you see, Journal, we all want to be as close to the sun as possible whether that be literally or metaphorically, but the route we go down to feel that heat, that is where the difference lies.

An artist I listen to, goes by the name of Big Scoob, he put out an album called Duality a couple years back and it starts with a skit of the Big Homie From the Show’Me talking about how there are two dogs within him, one evil and one good. I think the two dogs within humanity are not manifestations of good and evil but manifestations of our carnal desires and spiritual desires. Hell, even look at the emotional spectrum: on the left we have rage, hatred, misery; on the right we have ecstasy, love, joy.

Um…

Honestly, I don’t know where I was going with that. ‘Tis what ‘tis; while I may have made no attempt to find out the day of the week before writing this entry, I did make an attempt to smoke. A successful attempt.

OH WAIT! So the spectrum of desires and the spectrum of emotions, right? Each has a left and a right, so each must also have a middle. Of course there are two middles for each, as these spectrums are not two-dimensional; as far as the desires go, the two states of balance are very simply bothor neither; either you fulfill your desires with sex AND drugs – psychedelic drugs like weed and mushrooms, of course, not the narcotic shit that most folks use, I don’t know whatspectrum those dumbasses are on – or you don’t fulfill those desires. You seek out neither sex nor drugs. On the emotional spectrum, there are also two forms of balance: feeling content and feeling melancholic.

The point I’m trying to make? Balance is key, but it must be the right balance; folks who get both sex and drugs (mayhap even at the same time, ho-ho, hey-hey, stories for another day) are usually pretty content, while folks who can’t get either are usually pretty melancholic.

And then there’s me, who’s balance lies on a different spectrum altogether. Back at school I was a fiend for the green, Journal, weed was at the center of my reality. I’d freak out whenever my jar was getting low, I’d freak out if I hit up one of my many of-legal-age plugs and they didn’t answer on the first ring, and if I actually ran dry? Journal, nobody wanted to so much as think about me when I was dry and sober, I was a wreck. Literally all I could talk about was how badly I wanted the weed to come back. I’d just wander around in a semi-catatonic stupor all day, busying myself with asking random folks who walked by why the weed is gone. It was a disaster.

Here’s what I realized about that: perhaps I wasn’t going through cannabic withdrawal every time I ran dry. Perhaps I was just extremely anxious all the time. Despite the friends and lover, I was prominently alone back at Louberg U. I was an outcast – nobody else had come from a backwoods-ass town like Logger’s Pond, y’know? Nobody else really vibed with me because they didn’t really know how, unless I had some weed for them to smoke. I was everybody’s buddy when I had weed to smoke because I, myself, wasn’t totally enthralled by my anxiety. I could actually be around other human beings and not make them uncomfortable with my melancholic presence. When I ran out so did my relationships, but it wasn’t their fault. I was just annoying when I was aching for the sweet scorch of the pot smoke, that’s all it was. No big deal.

But now I’m back home. Now I’m back in my zone, back in the woods, back with my friends. I don’t have a reason to feel anxiety anymore; plus, going forward, I don’t think I want weed to be at the center of my reality. I don’t want a pot high to be the thing I’m looking forward to all day, y’know? I don’t want pot and sex to be my balance anymore. I want my balance to be writing.

And you know what, Journal? Considering how I just wrote all this before even finding out what day it is, I think I’ve done it. I think writing really is at the center of my reality now. I think I’ve found my true balance. And all I had to do was come home, imagine that!

The next goal: turn journaling into poem-writing so I can get my work out into the world. It might take a few days, but I’ll get there. I’m Albey the Mad Poet, after all. Or at least his twinner, wouldn’t that be something? If King and Straub were really onto something in The Talisman when they were talking about alternate parallel worlds and all of us having corresponding lifeforms in those alternate worlds.

Wouldn’t that be something… damn, I should read that book.

…                                     …                                    …

Waaaaaake and BAKE! What a good day this is. I don’t know what day it is, but I already know it’s going to be a good day. Maybe I’ll even go hiking, explore the woods around my folks’ house. That would be nice, especially after floating on a mattress stuffed with lofi hip-hop beats to study/relax to à la the Chillhop raccoon all day… in other words, staying in my room and smoking weed for sustenance. ‘Man, I can see the woods right now from the window next to my desk – the window that’s been next to my desk for as long as my desk has been in my room, that is – but yet I haven’t gone wandering around back there since… high school? Maybe? I don’t even know, could have even been middle school. Regardless, it’s been a while. Been a good long while.

…                                     …                                    …

Not sure if I’ve any more to say right now. Shit, this was quite a bit of writing after all. Cool. Cool cool cool.

Thank you, Journal. ‘Preciate ya. Peace~


Hello Commons, this has been the next journal entry from Untitled Bigfoot Project, a novel about a writer who writes a novel about bigfoot.

Untitled Bigfoot Project is part of the Third Spiral, an anthology of sorts called The Here and Now which is comprised of stories told from the various planes of Existence.

Untitled Bigfoot Project is available to read for free in its entirety on my website. Click here to check it out.

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

If you like Untitled Bigfoot Project and would like to help support my work, click here and buy an autographed copy of the book (or anything else!) from my store. Alternatively, you can snag a cheaper (and unsigned) copy from Amazon by clicking here.

Be well Commons~

Author:

I'm that guy who makes fiction books so he doesn't go insane.

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