A Mind Is a Terrible Thing to Taste

Weird scene these days in my brain. Not unpleasant at all. Rather plush, in fact. Big comfy chairs, good scotch and a decent mix of tunes that does not include either Bonnie Raitt or Air Supply.

But it’s an unsettled place. Unthethered and random. Like I can’t sit still for a second.

It started before Coachella. I can’t go into exact details just yet, but I can say I’d forgotton myself. All the boundaries and rules I’ve strictly followed for nearly 40 years seem inconsequential and…well…wrong. Is this what a mid-life crisis feels like?

It was quite liberating to shirk responsibility, good sense and, quite often, my shirt, those 4+ days in the desert. I had not a care in the universe and was simply able to glide from one delight to another. No deadlines.

But there’s always that foggy feeling of having to come back to the real world. Considering the general disregard of adulthood I felt before I left, the hangover–both from over-indulgence in alcohol and an overabundance of fun–was pretty severe. It seemed as if these tangible desires in the comfy room inside my head were just out of reach and I could only strain for them fruitlessly, which has manifested itself in a complete lack of focus.

Not such a good place from which to write. Or play poker. So I really haven’t done much of either. Conversely, these are two of the things which have fueled this self-examination. On the one hand, I can’t put my finger on central issue here. On the other, it’s both thrilling and fulfilling.

I know…this makes little sense. To me as well. There’s some sort of paradigm shift going on. I can feel it. It’s raining inspiration and I’m somehow not getting wet. Yet.

I am gonna play some fucking poker tonight, though.

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I got a text a few days ago from someone telling me he bet $2K on the Warriors-Mavs series. The whole nut on the Warriors winning in 6. Odds of 12-1.