I've got a good quote for anyone who might happen to be reading this:
"...Then, onto the Hollywood Freeway, into frantic oblivion... Safety... Obscurity... Just another freak, in the freak kingdom..." - Raoul Duke
Fuck, that was great.
I've been thinking about a lot of things, recently. Remembering a lot of things, too. Mostly Good Things, things that I like to remember. But also some Bad Things as well; things that I'd rather not remember, or things that I wish had never happened in the first place. Come to think of it, out of all of the Good Things and Bad Things that I've been remembering so vividly and so colorfully (and sometimes blurrily and incoherently), how many of them actually happened? There are sometimes when I'll think back and reminisce over places I've never been, things I've never done, and Good and Bad Times I've never had. That's probably because of the drugs. But who knows? Maybe it happens to Everyone, and only a few of us actually realize it. Or maybe I just fucked my own head up one too many times.
Sometimes I can prove to myself that my memories are real with things like pictures, or letters, or sometimes physical scars. But sometimes I can't decide for the life of me if this time, this place, these faces, these voices, were ever really even there. The time I took a tour of the ancient shrines and temples in Ueno Park? I have pictures. The time I spent living in Sapporo? I have pictures and emails from that, too. The time I accidentally cut into a vein while trying to draw blood for a birthday present? I still have the scar from the knife. The time I took too much crystal and rode my bike all the way to Gunma Prefecture from Tokyo? Fuck if I can prove that. The 6 months I spent living in Canada? I'd have to ask.
You see? I can prove to myself that some of the stupid fucking things I've done have been real, actual events, but sometimes it's the important things that I'm, for some goddamn reason, never clear on. Maybe I'm going insane? I doubt it. I don't have any reason to. I almost did one time, though. Ask Yuka. She was there the whole time. And I don't feel anything like I did then,. Not only that, I actually feel pretty good about things. About Everything. So it can't be that, right? Then, what the fuck IS it?
Sometimes I think I'm having acid flashbacks. I wonder. I've never actually seen anyone have one right before my eyes before, so I can't really tell. Actually, there was that one girl, Elena, I think her name was, who tried to tell me that she had done so much acid that she could flashback just by cracking her back. She then proceeded to crack her back and told me that she'd be fucked out of her skull within 30 minutes. Four hours later, she threw up and passed out drunk on the couch. What a bunch of bullshit. But then again, was THIS memory real? I can't ask her, she's dead now. I heard she died of heart failure caused by a sweet little cocktail composed of a heroin overdose and AIDS complications. This was a little while after she'd become a prostitute in order to fund her very own Official Heroin Addiction. It's sad, really. She was a really nice girl. Full of shit, and a lowlife, proven by the fact that she was, as earlier stated, a heroin addict, but still a sweet girl. Maybe someday I'll miss her. Like when I get tired of missing my other friends.
What the fuck was that sound?
Mornings in Kyoto are so fucking beautiful. There are mountains all around me, and the air smells nice. Not clean enough to hurt my lungs, and not rancid enough to sting my eyes. I like Japanese air. It's got character. The air in Vancouver was too clean, too thin for me. Too close to space. Gave me slight breathing problems. I was never fully able to concentrate or to lie my way out of trouble at that kind of altitude. But I have to admit, I saw the most beautiful morning view of my life in Vancouver. It was on the night that my old mate Scott and I walked around Stanley Park for about 6 hours smoking weed and discussing everything from history to literature to game shows to ghosts to our dead friends. We were walking down Robson from the Vancouver Library towards my apartment, and all of a sudden, right in front of me, about 50 miles or so away, was some huge, snow-capped, beautiful fucking mountain. It looked just like the Paramount logo. I swear I was about to have a fucking aneurysm, it was so amazing. I just stared at it for about 15 minutes, in awe. I've got to find something to beat that. It'll be awhile, but I'll find it.
Just a little longer. Morning in Kyoto. I'm going to go outside and have a smoke before the sun comes out completely and ruins things.
That was nice. I smoked a little faster than usual, so now I have a nice cigarette buzz. Actually, I hate cigarettes. No, I like cigarettes. I hate the addiction. I don't like the idea of not having a choice in my own personal affairs. But for now, it can't be helped. It will pass someday.
Here it comes. The Rain. Falling down. I love The Rain, too. I spent all of yesterday walking around to the different temples in this area of Kyoto in The Rain. It was tiring but it was really nice. Today, I'll probably end up either sleeping in late or going to the University again. Maybe I'll run into Chie again.
It's really sudden, but fuck it. I'm going to stop here. Maybe I'll write again tonight. Maybe not.
Be Excellent To Each Other.