The buck stops here

doorSaid some US president and maybe he meant it. Perhaps some collossal arrogance to think that the buck, so to speak, really can stop at one place with total infallibility. It would certainly take a man at the top of his game.

Which is not myself I think. But, that is not to say it shouldn’t be. Certainly not to say that I shouldn’t try to sort things out. Try to prevent history repeating itself and try to change. Oh for the soul of a nineteenth century reformer instead of the morals of a veteran nintendo kid, button-bashing and colour sampling to my heart’s content. These are not times for noble deeds or for struggling out of the quagmire that is a mixture of long lost adolescence, kwik-fit transcendentalism and cravings for oblivion. Time to stop all that I think. Oh yes, the buck stops here.

So tomorrow, which begins with a hard fought trip to South London, suit clad again and clutching papers and promises of design brilliance, must be the beginning of sobriety. The first step on a programme I like to call the Ken Kesey thirty nine steps recovery programme or KKTN to all you soundbite hunters. Like Ken said, when you first start you’re taking this stuff to free your mind and open the door, so you can go jumping through. Straight to main nerve, so to speak (thanks to the good Doctor for that one). But there’s gotta come a point where you say “hey, the doors jammed open now, man – it’s time to get away from the acid and just go through”.

Strange tinpot logic from people that first learnt how to not shave and piss a lot of people off by wearing funny bright clothes and having sex with each other. Ah, how far we’ve come. But, I like this way of thinking and it has a certain resonance for me. It’s felt like the doors been open for a long time and if I could just put down this fine medicine and the eight foot chillum, maybe I could get through. Maybe there is a land of straight backs, effusive confidence and bright shining golf-courses somewhere beyond this ash stinking room. My god, the bits of paper, each one scrawled with some kind of crazed proclamation of greatness or some future plan of half-cocked commercial genius. Could I somehow gather some of these together into something salient, prolonged and enjoyable?

Phew, it’s a big thought for a long night spent reeling from the pain you can cause to other people without meaning to and the prospects of hard work and no more sleep again ahead. The work train cranks up another gear and the diver breathes in whole clean air, saving it up for the months of canistered low-oxygen high caffeine days to come. Gathering for the next speedy rush and then come up slowly, try not to go too fast or your brains pop out of your ears and your eyes shrink to the size of brazil nuts. But I digress. What might I find on the other side? That is the question. And for that, I guess I’ll have to wait and see. Sober as a judge.

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