A Grab Bag of Thoughts at 12:21am, President's Day MMV

Hunter S. Thompson shot himself. "The Hemingway Exit." I wonder just how hard a man he had become. What thoughts zoomed through his brain that he could not twist a pen down a page, share with the world and move on. Kill oneself on the page--God knows I've done it many times. Just written myself out of existence. What a way to write yourself out though, huh? I wonder what his last thought he had...what led him to this path.

Perhaps he wept because there were no more worlds left to conquer? Maybe he was just crazy.

Gonzo Journalism is Dead. Long live Gonzoism.

The rain just stopped. For a moment, it is quiet here and no longer a turbulent deluge of water moving sideways from the sky. It's been beating down on the house for over an hour now, in stops and starts, beats and pounds of god-fists against the sky.

The rain makes me sleepy. Not sleepy in that I'm bored by it, but sleepy in that it is comforting. Sure, I may miss the sun, but the rain reminds me of something far off that I cannot put my finger on. Something familiar, and wonderful, and sad.

There is a smell that I love that happens right before it rains--the smell of wet dust coming up from the earth. It smells like the Jackson, Mississippi of my childhood, when my Great Grandmother was still alive, and my view of the world was from three feet high and rising. It is amazing what your persepctive is on everything when you live hip-high to everyone else.

Then there is the smell of saturated earth--of mud, and dung and wet cut-grass. It smells like something has died. And like something may yet grow.

My brain seems saddled with something that I cannot shake, and it makes it difficult to write. Well, write anything of substance more than brain dribbles and observations that mean nothing to anyone but me. And it's hard to shake, this...fog. I've done little else this weekend by sleep. And think. I have time, and I can't use it. Useless.

One page down. Nine more to go. And all I want to do is sleep.