Neural Static and Synaptic Chatter

General agitation today. That happens sometimes, when the routine of corporate sameness forces me to take shelter in the written words of an outlaw gonzo journalist, whose prose kicks me in the ass and fills me with acute consciousness of the immediacy of NOW, and then suddenly, and I can't stand to sit any longer in this drab grey cubicle staring at these liquid crystal pixels. I'm turning cyborg. I can't get the program to work. Fuck it, it's Friday, and Miles and I have already agreed to have a few drinks at lunch, which virtually gaurantees no work getting done, but since I can't get the damn program to work, I suppose it's a moot point.

I have this vague conception in my head about being a creative writer, of forcing all of the random weirdness in my maddeningly literal mind into a series of words, which might accomplish... what? And why should anyone care? Words are their own recourse. In the beginning was the word, and the word was with god, and the word was god, and the word became flesh and dwelt among us. Not that it matters. The endlessly dynamic configurations of absurdity in my mind could surely be twisted, molded, and shaped into some sort of enduring testment to... something. Whatever.

Neural static, synaptic chatter, what does it all mean? Anything? Are my thoughts simply an expression of mechanistic matter? Is existence truly meaningless, as the nihilists seem to believe, if it can be called believing? How should we then live? Who should I be? Is it Ballard's insistence that the 21st century meme is selected psychopathy? Maybe that's it. Choose your dementia, load up on heinous chemicals, and freak out.

If I can only get a handle on this infant century, if I can just wrap my mind around what's going on and where we're all headed... that would be something. But what the fuck is going on? I must venture outside more often, into the cavernous maw of urban California, here in the post-American century, and be with the people. There are millions of them around here. From the 9 inches of window in my cubicle, I can see them walking on sidewalks here in downtown San Jose, 8 floors below me, scurrying like ants to their Friday lunch meetings. Effete, well-scrubbed denizens of the Silicon Valley traversing the concrete jungle in fine silk and smooth leather, while consciously ignoring the sickness of dirty homeless feral human prey wandering, begging, sleeping in their own muck in forgotten doorways under ragged eaves. Indeed, there are flies and blue skies, and the just and the unjust all walk side by side.

But who cares? I can't even muster an original sentence today. I'm cursed. I can't even manage to get laid, although that mostly involves my excessive sense of personal skepticism, coupled with my reluctance to talk to beautiful strangers. Small talk agitates me. Surely there must be SOMETHING more important to discuss than the weather and sitcoms. Like lust, greed, and treachery. Like politics, history, and sociology. Like analingus and righteous indignation.

What the hell was that? Better not to say anything on a day like this, when my mind is spinning but my thoughts go nowhere. Well, the weekend is nearly here. Time to venture an excursion through the southern Silicon Valley and its western appended fault-rift-mountain range, seeking lodging within accepted parameters, where I can live alone in peace and smoke dope unmolested whilst pondering a gestalt image of absolute reality.

Which, after all, is my god-given American right.