Saturday, October 22, 2005

"That is all we could ask for..."

Its been a sad state of affrias here in the Temple of Gonzo.

I have deprived the world of my rantings and musing about why the world around me is to decedant and depraved to truly understand hte meanings of life and everyhitng we have (or had) to offer them.

A quick update of where I have been.

I spent a weekend in the hospital with some rare for of a throat virus. Apparently the Bird Flu made its way to COlumbia and is decided to rape and pillage my throat at the most inopporune time; right before mid-terms.

It took a trip to the hospital where the masochists in white uniforms shoved needles into me and pumed me full of pain killers (so my life has not been all bad). They then crammed a tube down my throat - mostly to help me breathe.

They then had to cut open my tonsile - you know the crap in you throat that usually gets taken out at the age of 12. Go figure. I still hold on to mine. I have issues with holding onto the past.

I think i could be the drugs from that ordeal, or the fact that now, as I get back on my feet 100 percent, i find myself not sleeping - ever.

This past week I had too much going on. STRIPES, Mid-terms, deadlines. It all came down in one cruel cluster-fuck and nearly crushed me like some kind of bug under the eye of an evil 10 year-old with a magnifying glass.

Just burn the flesh off me and maybe i can take the rest of hte semster off.

I then spent hte next week preparing for a job fair where i was demoralized, humiliated and told to maybe pick a different profession. And that all came from the adviser who was sitting at hte front desk checking people in.

Fuck her, and the fucking newspapers at the fair.

With all this unneeded preasure and drugs corsing through my body, i seem to be having some very weird and vivid dreams that pretty much scare the crap out of me.

A couple of nights ago I woke up after a rather weird dream.

I was driving with my two brothers in the mountinans of COlorado toward the home of the Temple of Gonzo's idol, Hunter S. Thompson. As we got closser I could sence it. It was like being there and everything looked exaclty how it did when my attorney and editor went out there for the man's funeral back in August.

As we approached his hom, I could see the remanants of the 200-foot tower, disasembled and lying on the ground. THe part ended a long time ago and now the people who lived here were putting together their lives as they coped with the loss of their leader, their husban, their father.

The next thing I remember we are at the front door of his house asking to see Thompson.

"Only if you can handle him," The woman - I assume his wife - says to me. He has been dead for nearly nine months, and yet it seemed complteley natural that we were meeting him in his home.

My brother and I sit on the front steps that appear to go to the second floor of his ranch house. The steps are darkened as they go up into oblivian, but it is obvious someone is coming down them.

I don't turn around but I see the expression on my brother's face. He is awestruck. He says nothing.

I turn around and instantly am drawn to his eyes. As he limps down the stairs he stops about three stpes above where I am sitting. He features are gaunt and his eyes yellowed and sunken into his round, bald head.

His signiature yellow aviator glasses slung arounhd his face and ciggarette burns with a mellowed intensity.

He did not come screaming down the banister or shout obsenities or attempt to tackle me from behind - something I would expect from this legend of a tourble maker.

I had never met him beofre and now, in my dream, i did not know what to say. I was more affraid than anything.

As he leaned on the railing ot take the weight of what I assumed was a bad hip, he took the ciggarette out of his mouth and started muttering to him self looking down at his feet.

His family is standing around hte stairs - or I again assume they are his family - they look directly at me with an unwavering facination.

"Well son," he starts looking right at me, his eyes red and droopy. Drugs? Lack of Sleep? "You have done everything you can. And that is all we could ask for..."

He trails off and then begins to trun around and starts back up the stairs into the darkness.

It was obvious, I had failed at something. Something so impossible that even Thompson himself knew there was no such thing as sucess in this mission. The Insanty could not be maintianed, the level of energy and action would not last. But what was it? Did I fail him? Is there someone I had failed.

Was it the fact that we lost the spirt of the Temple? Did these tresspassrs soil the grounds of this place so much that Thompson, whom we had decidated the palce, no longer wanted to be associated with it.

Was it the newspaper fair? No, he would not give a damn about that crap. It was life. Had I not been a good deciple in the teachings of Gonzo nad the way of life where noone if comfortable - everyhting is a game and a palce to goof off.

I had failed. Look at me. There is no coming back ot the days of Gonzo after this. I have lost it. I knew this when he died and we saw his body shot into the sky in a flurry of fireworks. The party hadended, the madness would stop. The man would reign again.

Only I had attempted to keep it alive, but that brought nothing but lost expectations and this constant nagging from one outsider that I have a drinking problem. You are jsut jellous that I can be so succesful and drunk at the same time.

But it does not matter now. It's over.

Like changing the channel of the TV I was suddnely gone. The feelings of being somewhere: gone. I did not feel the warmth of my surroundings or the feeling of someone lurching around me. It was jsut another dream I had entered leaving behind the last real thing I knew.

From here on out, Gonzo is a dream, an asspiration and someting that will always be jsut beyond the reach of any mortal man.

Well, as long as I can still blet WIld Turkey from the bottle and breath the air, I will aspire for that goal. I will continue to fight against the forces of evil - both real and imagines - sometimes the imagined ones are worse.

A good friend said that to me once. I think its time to pay her a visit and begin this renniassance of the Spirit of Gonzo.