I give up! I give up! I give up! I give up!

This always happens this time of year!

Autumn.

Autumn is happening again and this time it's in Los Angeles. I can safely say this is my first autumn in Los Angeles. I usually try to be somewhere ... witchy as October sets in. Somewhere where the things I feel like doing are right outside your back door. In the woods. Oh, how dark an autumn woods can be.

But this year autumn's in Los Angeles and something is in bloom again. Oh, devil, it is violently seductive and holds instant access to whatyourelookingfor. I live in a city of 3.8 million people proper, and I smell fantasy in bloom every season. I am hypnotized and I remember turning on my window shield wipers tonite. It has been since February since it rained last. Not that what I swished off my goggles was rain, mind you. More like mist. But enough of it to need one window shield swipe. And then it was over. It rained in LA in autumn tonite.

I detect a pattern emerging. Maybe I'm the only one who doesn't see it, though I try to keep insightful. Here it is: everytime I go to the drum and bass club I come home and write the shit out of my head because I am so high. High for three days from Technical Itch pulled off the stage, ending with the brownest bump of all midsentence. That's a pro. And I got high. And now I am flying on my broomstick through what feels like the most gentle, most urban eerie onset of autumn ever.

The brighter the sun, the deeper the shadows.

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I'd have to disagree with Freud, the creative genius inventor of psychoanalysis, that repression - specifically sexual repression - is the defining motivation to our personalities.

Now, I might be psychoanalyzing myself here, but I think it's Death. It's not some opposable digit, biped motion, or language capability that separates us from our hairier four-legged counterparts. It's that somewhere in human evolution we were there watching another of our species die and instead of simply feeling despair or triumph over their plight, we had the lightening flash that: I, too, will die.

A random, accidental event births "ego", solves the missing link and instigates all sorts of historical repercussions including insanity, violence and the need to obsessively use right angles in architectural design (you can't walk down the street without it, people).

Me? I just choose to think about Death every day. I won't expand too much except that I've come to the realization that to every yin there is a yang, every coin has two contingent sides, and the complimentary opposite to Death is not Love, as some might expect and neither is it birth. It's sex. Sex and Death are exactly the same only completely polar.

Sexual repression and mortaility repression: maybe Freud was closer than we thought.

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I give up. Release me, thorn. You've stabbed so deeply the skins grown over and I've lived with you buried all this time.

A constant slight, my limp is your cadence.
Like a canine, I have run stoopid smiling forward, undaunted in my quest for enjoyment and wincing only when no one is near.
Like a surgeon, I have taken needle and scalpel and sliced in, bringing blood again, I have dissected everything inside.
Like an idiot, I have accepted myself with injury included - even going so far as to give grace for the graze.

And all this meditating and questing and educating has beget me is more of the same but with different responses.

I'm not looking for peace. I'm looking for the philosopher's stone.

I stop midstride. I clutch something sore. I dream everything shades of grey with no country I haven't already been and no city I care to explore because it's all just grey and I can't possibly top myself anymore anyway.

The scent of a lover long past, crisp forrest floor nostolgia, drifted through the air today.

I mark the end of summer.

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