A few days ago, Saturday, I could be seen Terrace, crossed beyond recognition of course—as you should be at Terrace—stumbling my way downstairs, when I was struck in the head. I struck in the head with one of those fleeting but indelible moments of illumination, those peeks into something more profoud then baseline awareness, like Teresa-of-Ávila was, which I had to mention because I’m a pretentious fuck. My head split open in searing and abject pain, but it was not corporeal, no; the tragedy and the terrible horror of the truly ephemeral nature of that moment was washing across me: this moment will never, it could never, it would never be recovered or relived exactly and would only remembered in a decaying, shitty, and infinitely incomplete picture in the drunken recesses of my brain, a photocopy of a photocopy of an already blurry polariod, that my conciousness in that moment could not be captured, and so I would die with it, and in the time that come to this conclusion, that I had already died a hundred times.
And then, my head struck the banister above it (in my dually elevated state, I had forgotten to duck). This loud crack of bone against hard, dead wood wrenched me back to reality, going… ah, downstairs! More beer. Yes! And before I knew it and without my conciousness dying even once I was downstairs, ordering one beer, no, two, and, let’s light this joint again for good measure, no more epiphanies tonight.
And so now I sit, days later, and record this moment, since my schedule allows it. I record the overexposed and blurry image of that split second, simultaneously distilled down into and eroded by this infinitely crude medium, the written word. It will live here, I expect, until all the cells in my body die, and then maybe longer. I have done this for a reason I do not know, and cannot grasp, instructed by the last wishes of my dying self that Saturday night, when it hit me, right in the forehead, at Terrace.