_Intro:

Wicked bout of head fog. Won't pretend I don't know where it came from but will omit the details. Instead, all I'll say is that it unfortunately impedes my writing. A clear head is needed, perhaps I'll do something to ground myself. Moving on, the day's been a long battle of moral confusion and the whole year feels like it's been going that course as well. The need to feel validated, accepted, all clash with the lingering sense of cultural rot, like there's not enough empathy to go around. We've all become embittered by the state of things.

I no longer feel at odds with the optimists but still can't see things as they do-it's just not in me. Nevertheless, all's left to do is move forward. I enjoy watching Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas during times like this. The spiritual decay of Raoul Duke feels like a parallel to my own, like there's nothing left but to carry on with the loss of something better.

But I still have my own insecurities to deal with no matter the state of things. Feelings of inadequacy, feelings of isolation. It's still the same noise.

_On Fear and Loathing:

It's easily in my list of top 10 films, right next to Aliens and 28 Days Later. Driving through the western US hits a nostalgic chord with me, especially when I think of those long summer drives to California with the grandparents. What brief moments I spent in Las Vegas still resonate with me emotionally and I think that's because I love Fallout: New Vegas. But there's more to it than that!

I see a lot of parallels to draw between Nixon and the Trump administration but what unites them both is that loss to the forces of old and evil. However, they can both be vilified in their own ways. More than that, though, is the cultural rot that follows. Maybe it was always there but the volume is louder now.

People are starting to run out of steam. How long can we keep going like this? Work just to barely survive in a world of increasing hostility. Why do you work for a living if you kill yourself working? Something like that. I think everyone's finally catching onto the grim meat-hook reality and from that comes exhaustion of both mind and body. There's no capacity for kindness anymore-I fear it's too late for that. The rules are clear and everyone's dug in. But in that bleak outlook there's levity. The other night I sat with my girlfriend, in my truck, both of us enjoying cheeseburgers California Style while listening to Van Halen's Ain't Talking Bout Love. It's important to find joy where you can.

I wish I had Raoul Duke's chaotic energy. More than likely that was a product of severe drug usage and possible head trauma from the time a gang of biker's put the boots to him. When I watch his antics in the movie, he seems liberated in a way, like he's an explorer in a new, obscene reality. An alien where ever he goes. Something tells me that was the mask he wore to navigate Nixon's America. Another thing that struck me was the Z symbolism.

It starts as a threat coming from Doctor Gonzo expressing his desire to carve a little Z into Duke's forehead. Later, Gonzo follows through on his promise by writing it in ketchup, and finally in the pink hotel room after the adrenochrome binge. Written on the back wall, "Z He lives!". I've been told that Hunter S. is no stranger to putting cryptic details into his work but I'm fascinated by the meaning. It harkens back to Zorro and his famous "Z" insignia. In ancient Greek, Z means "He lives". But what method was there to the Doctor's madness? Because it seems the Z appears right after an epic drug binge-White Rabbit in the tub, the high watermark, adrenochrome. And Z is right there after that unfortunate return to consciousness, lucidity.

It's no accident that Duke wanted to kill himself and perhaps that was the intent all along. Suicide by reckless behavior and when that didn't work, a S&W model 645 finished what the drugs started. Hunter S. Thompson-too weird to live and too rare to die.

So what notes does the movie leave us with? Because it seems to end on this message of defeatism but Jumpin' Jack Flash by the Rolling Stones tells us it's alright, in fact it's a gas. I think that's good enough for me. Hunter S. went on to write and influence many lives with his work and the legacy of an American Outlaw still carries on. There's hope in that.

I have to contend with the fact that life isn't the adventure I thought it would be. There's no epic to be derived from existing here but still we have to make do. Whatever grounds you is reason enough to stay. Do not go quietly into that good night.

_Where do I leave off?:

Though it sounds antithetical to my original virtues as an artist, creation without connection feels pointless. I still have hope that good news is out there, I just need to give myself time and patience. But now I have the added weight of defeatism. Nothing worthwhile is easy, or so say they say. Nevertheless, the only way out of a tunnel is forward and that's my intent.

When I was a teenager I had this stallion energy, I said damn the torpedoes and carried on because everything would be alright in the end. Then quickly, reality sets in that no amount of posturing can dissuade and all that momentum evaporates. Moving forward means being strategic, intentional, every year the safety net gets thinner. If there's something we can takeaway from this, the test of one's mettle comes from how they weather adversity, not avoid it. Fucking bullshit if you ask me but let's wrap up here.

I'm going to see my therapist for the first time in months and I know for certain I want to discuss with him the depression's quiet revival. And the intrusive thoughts, the insecurities, and where I'm at in my passions. The state of the world feels like it needs to be glossed over, nothing positive will come from that.

A submarine feels like an oddly comforting image. It's the ideal of soft power, a submarine isn't this vulgar display of force but rather it's quiet, intentional, observant. That's the kind of imagery I need moving forward.

-Errant Out.