Dorking Out

Secret lava flows of stress and insecurity, subterranean streaming fears that poke out in all the awkward places. Pimples. And bum shoulders. Bad ankles. Sleepless nights. Dodgy knees. And bad breath. Rolling around in places of solace, trying to get the dust to swirl just so, the sand to stick just right. Dropping by Mastastico's the other night, I happened upon an inner sanctum of heavy import. I'd seen photos and I'd heard tales. But the stuff on hand, not just a sheer pile of rubble, but one exploration heaped on another, one layer of history stacked up on another. Lots of people have tumblr pages and blogs and instagram accounts and facebook pages. Other people do it in the flesh. Careful slapdash, compulsive free for all. There are people all around you with stories to tell. Pay attention.