Crowley and Castenada Go to the Beach.

This post is not about you.



Or, goddamit, I could say it like this...

I want...

An International Harvester Scout.

You know the one. Meanest fucking truck on the planet. Square as a brick with tire treads you could fit your fist in. No soft top. No hard top. No damn top at all. I want to take this rusted, dusty, primer-gray fuck-of-a-truck straight down the coast of California, before this whole ratfuck state falls into the sea. I'm gonna take two quarts of 1921 Reposada tequila, and I'm gonna have a cooler full of Corona and limes; A stack of ribeye steaks, a sack of shrimp, a couple of greasy paper sacks of tortillas and a fucking hibachi.

And I want a shotgun and an axehandle strapped into a rack behind the seat.

That's the cherry on top.

I want to grind down 101, ripping Ministry and Motorhead and Tool out of a boom box duct-taped to the rollbar, and roll into Hell-fucking-A just in time to catch the bloody red SoCal sun as it sets that foul, crusted cyst of a city ablaze. Then the stagger/swagger into the dark fifties-retro batcave that is the bar called Daddy's, on Hollywood and Vine wearing beat-up leathers and a blacker-than-black cowboy hat. Stay for just long enough to absorb the cool air, shoot a shot of whisky to the crooning of Sinatra, and then back behind the wheel of The Beast, and onward down the curving coastal arc of I-5 and away into the Mexican night; Massive Attack and Tricky pulsing out jagged beauty into the darkness and the void. Just drive... Drive all night, leaving the border far behind youunder a fat blue Mexican moon. Just keep going driving racing chasing the end of everything until the land just stops at the goddamn tip of this godfarsaken coastline, and find a pure stretch of beach, covered in sugar-white sand and the sun-bleached bones of gulls. I want to lie in the sun and tell you all my ugly stories and beautiful lies, where I'm always the hero, even when everything is my fault, and shame; and I want to sit cross-legged by a fire in the sand, and listen to the story of you. I want to lay down, stretched out on a white linen beach chair, and savor the piss-foul-bubbly-sweet taste of cheap Mexican beer, and listen to you while you tell me the Name of everything you've loved, and everything you hated, the things that made you into you.

You and I would drive to the end of the world, and just be soft there, waiting for the world to end; drinking cheap beer and good tequila, and glowing in the last amber light of the setting golden sun. Just two white-trash angels, laughing and living and fighting in the sand;

Sunset and margaritas and Billie Holliday at the end of the world.

Fuck T.S. Eliot and the white flannel trousers he rode in on.

I will wear a black cowboy hat, and walk upon the beach.

I would dare to eat the fucking peach.

But I'd offer it to you first.

And that is how I'd rephrase my ealier post, and this is what it means:

Everything you need to know you can find in a flower, fucker. In the pulse of a lily, and in the grace of it's stem, you can hear God telling you a very simple truth; life was designed for beauty, you stupid cocksucker, and to be alive...

Not to live like you're dead until you die.


The past is over, and the future hasn't fucking happened yet. What the fuck do you have to complain about? Your problem is either over, or hasn't even manifested. Stop bitching about your pain; You can't carry mine, why should I carry yours? Just because I can?

Ha.

You're like drowning people, you narcissists; you faded flowers; you're so intent on going down so deep that you don't even notice you're drowning in shallow water.

And me? I've done the deathshead trip, and I'm done. I want to go to the end of the world and drink bad beer with someone who has something better to do than die.

Satori.