Henry Miller once said that anybody whom is perpetually interested in the outside world must have quite a lot of fear about looking in at their own life. Actually, Henry Miller said a lot of things. Henry Miller, lets be honest, was speaking incessantly.
Some psychologists describe the scenario of somebody who cannot stand a pause, cannot stand the sight of a blank wall or a quiet night, in the most perverse and mean-spirited terms.
like nick nack paddy wack give the dog a bone. this they say.
good an introduction as any!
I’ve been reading the golden bough and watching a film on hunter s thompson, Gonzo. I went outside to pick up some groceries and slowly realized I’d relapsed into the cocooning insomniac hurricane that is a few days with nothing to do: I’d not left. I’d paced nervously from one room to the next, knowing I had no deadlines or rather obscuring those remaining into a far distant future. Movie after movie have cut the last few days into a welsh countryside scene I’ve been flying over a la The Snowman film from 1982 I was raised on. All the time these films pervade over the drab everyday life, what the hell am i supposed to do with all this french fetish, and italy? and germany? dreams and half cut tickets and missing journals and throbs of dream and clover, irish cliffs, tea and teeth, never sleeping, always freezing. cigarettes and ash as the only decor over wood floors and tidelines of book mounds collapsing against wall and guests. So I’m having a lot of angst grief rationalizing a lot of the unused or unrecognized features of my creative psyche, be it linguistically, communally or symbolically. A lot of that came to a head today when an innocuous trip out the door reminded me exactly how long it had been I’d been ostrichheading my face into the dirt of my apartment, pacing from guitar to piano to computer and the nonsense of the internet, a thousand smiles and emotions shared with nobody. who was it who decried the television, Sinatra? something along the lines of, it destroyed the cinema this monster, hundreds of thousands of humans alone, light falling across their floorboards- laughing ALL AT THE SAME TIME and yet still feeling lonely and alone. it is kinda sinister.
but in addition to that obvious social itch there is just the weirdness of opening my email and coming across all these old journal subscriptions I’ve got for a million things that just aren’t interesting me these days: be it politics or the polemics of squatting, language exchange , hospitality facilitation groups, …(groups of any sort, for that matter….) I’m well aware that I tend to look for monogamous sorts of things like an airtube of happiness when I dive down into other wells of things less than happy that I feel a sort of divine directive to seek out, the muck and bad luck circus that is The Other Folk, the third world shadows we entangle into bad soundtracks and commercials interrupting our reality tv. I’ve been really down lately. Since I’ve come back, or perhaps longer. Its not fair to say its been universal, I’ve been thrilled to find my girl, my fox, my annabelle. These things warm me away from so much.
But the everyday is this huge thing. Annabelle is there to greet me once I’ve already survived the outside world and crawl back into the fireside world of this cave, my fox has her times and her own world. For once in my life it begins to dawn on me that I’ve got to be responsible for finding coping mechanisms that don’t rely exclusively on always holding hands with somebody and staring into a smile whenever I’ve been reading about war or disgusted by marketing. All this impatience has been bubbling out of my hermitage onto the strangest audiences, and there is just no reason. I gotta get that together. No point in being the Giver if it isn’t selective.
Sympathetic, imitative magic. Folk think you can change something because you’ve got something that looks or acts like it, or maybe something that once touched or moved it. I went outside today to by groceries and got all teary eyed. The weather had utterly changed. I wanted to walk there but realized almost immediately I couldn’t take it, couldn’t take that much time in the mood and chill simultaneously. Each and every window of the car was frosted over, a snails trail of car lights over the freeway lane bridge transversion. I hated myself for driving, I hated myself for staying in the house til I was this sensitive to the outside. I got to the store and some yuppie asshole was lecturing a homeless man in the frost about proper venues for finding food without hassling passersby, i stopped to hand him a dollar and accidentally gave him a ten. He looked at me and I at him, I smiled, walked into the sticky warm store, the muzak, the fluorescent lights and wax beneath mats. Got back into my car feeling this profound need to smoke.
Coffee hissing. I feel like this has always been my shtick, coffee and cigarettes. I got me a woman around here somewhere. I’ve got all these ghostly instruments cluttering up my vanity, waiting for a band and the free time and cash that come from a real job, proper slavish servility, the sheen of a smile bouncing of each paycheck. sometimes when i wake up and its ten fourtyfive, yeah i still put on more coffee
i love the world in this profoundly weird way. only it could make a me.