![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
"We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark -- the place where the wave finally broke and rolled back."
1971
We are all as Thoroughly Fucked as we can be. If Hunter S. Thompson felt he couldn't survive the Present Grim Era, what the fuck? I mean What. The. Fuck? Hunter wrote the Truth, all the time. For all the lying and fantasy he did, he wrote Truth consistently and with a mad gleam in his eye. I'm suddenly impoverished. I feel like the Bad News swamps us faster than we can bail out the boats we're all drifting in. I never got to meet him, and I had really planned to try. Maybe start with simple short letters addressed to Owl Farm. A package with a small piece of some unusual artwork, an Artifact for him to enjoy. I had this plan to penetrate the shell and get him to impart even the smallest bit of Wisdom. Instead, he kills himself?? I'm just so fucking tired of fucking Suicides! Perhaps Hell doesn't actually exist- I certainly don't believe suicide is a guaranteed way to go there. However, perhaps in our anger and frustration we simply damn in our minds those who leave us with only their words, and our shreds of memory. O heart. Hunter S. Thompson was one of the Best, a Great American, a genius, classic writer, a Johnson (in the Burroughsian tradition) and a Model Citizen for people like me. He was a Kassandra, who if we'd but listened, could have helped us see our Future and stave off the Evils of a world gone mad. I'm just so pissed off about this, I can barely see straight. We just. keep. Losing.
1971
We are all as Thoroughly Fucked as we can be. If Hunter S. Thompson felt he couldn't survive the Present Grim Era, what the fuck? I mean What. The. Fuck? Hunter wrote the Truth, all the time. For all the lying and fantasy he did, he wrote Truth consistently and with a mad gleam in his eye. I'm suddenly impoverished. I feel like the Bad News swamps us faster than we can bail out the boats we're all drifting in. I never got to meet him, and I had really planned to try. Maybe start with simple short letters addressed to Owl Farm. A package with a small piece of some unusual artwork, an Artifact for him to enjoy. I had this plan to penetrate the shell and get him to impart even the smallest bit of Wisdom. Instead, he kills himself?? I'm just so fucking tired of fucking Suicides! Perhaps Hell doesn't actually exist- I certainly don't believe suicide is a guaranteed way to go there. However, perhaps in our anger and frustration we simply damn in our minds those who leave us with only their words, and our shreds of memory. O heart. Hunter S. Thompson was one of the Best, a Great American, a genius, classic writer, a Johnson (in the Burroughsian tradition) and a Model Citizen for people like me. He was a Kassandra, who if we'd but listened, could have helped us see our Future and stave off the Evils of a world gone mad. I'm just so pissed off about this, I can barely see straight. We just. keep. Losing.