Day 259: Guinea, A Retrospective.

The Heart of Darkness.

Dark side of the moon.

Y’know, Chicago.

There are places that evoke fear, in some circumstances even condone it.

Yeah, Dark Side of the moon, not especially relevant, but I’m riding it out.

All this to say, that Guinea is my ” Fuck it, let’s start over, from Fish, or whatever” country of complete hopelessness.

The creme of the paradoxical tart for me, was when the freedom fighters or Political idealists who were exploding cars and having gun fights with police, then set up flaming road blocks to extort money from the hard working Guinean man driving me to Dakar.

That’s not change homie, that’s you being the thing you’re determined to change, violently, apparently.

Curse those who use mayhem as an excuse to be fucking assholes.

Corruption, I’m noticing, seems to be an infection.

If there’s enough exposure, how does one not become infected by it.

Even with my righteous 3% total energy in the SUV, I wanted to yell “hypocrites!”

As the mob demanded money from the Chauffeur.

Which, for a white in that specific situation. Would be, Nas Pas Bon.

So I closed my eyes and let the vacuum of cyclical and hopeless human destruction convene.

Those ruthless fuckers!

Banging on the hood, yelling, lighting fires on the road that were intimidating, visually.

But also pretty amazing, actually.

Guinea was the first African country to become independent.

They should be fucking, Wakanda, Instead their Cormac McCarthy’s, The Road.

In other news, I officially have an unhealthy obsession with ice.

I think about it.

Dream about it.

The thought of being in the cold tub at Lindsay Parks Sports and Recreational Centre, in Calgary, drinking an organic, off green lemonade, no.

Sprite, a Sprite slushy with mint and lime.

Give me strength Lord Vishnu.

Right now I love ice like Tennessee Williams loved truth.

Twain, the Mississippi steam boat.

I love ice like the doomed to die by firing squad, loved a last cigarette, or imparting constructive criticism for Church or King.

Who were, back in the day, real party poopers.

Ice ice ice ice ice.

Fuck.

Now I can’t get Vanilla Ice out of my head.

Making the last torturous hour of this drive to Dakar, truly painful.

Oh Vishnu.

I just smelt a Grape Mr Freeze.

It was beautiful.