I am in the red chair in the morning. In front of me, there is a triptych of clouds. Fluffy, blue clouds. They are hurtling recklessly to the east. I suppose that’s toward the lake. I woke up early in order to shop a class. I thought I would see at least a couple of people that I know. But there were only three people there. I won’t be staying in the class. It only went fifteen minutes. As unpleasant as it was to sit through it, I was still counting on rather more than that, in order to keep me occupied and eat some of my day. I require forced distraction in order to behave, maybe even in order to survive.
Now it’s 11.00 in the morning and I’m at a loose end. That’s a good indication that something is amiss.
The Pub doesn’t open until 4.30 and I won’t go at that time anyway because it’s so early as to be loserly and I’m unwilling to be a loser (yet). Other options: drink my own… go downtown and ???… go back to I-House, crawl into my hole and go to sleep… No way I’m gonna work on anything.
Not anything that I have here, anyway.
It’s been a long time since I had “something I’m working on” that mattered to me. I don’t know what the last thing was, even. Probably the chapbook I was trying to put together way back in the late ’90s, when I was more certain of things. But I look at it now and think it’s shite.
I really want to write. What does it mean when you’ve had five years of writers’ block? Did I ever really have anything to say anyway? When I was younger, it really felt like I did. Only now when I look at what I wrote back then, I can’t make head or tails of it. It’s like hundreds of pages of nonsense. I didn’t have the skill to say what I was feeling then. I might now… but now the feeling has passed…
I’ve lost my anger at the world, or at least ninety percent of it. I’m in one of the world’s great cities, but I’m bored. I’ve seen all of this before. Art galleries, ballets, operas, museums, grand lakes, pubs, clubs, shows. The world full of people either a) starving, b) getting bombed, c) working or d) off work, spending money, waiting to work again. Is there nothing more to life than this?
This is what happens when you have no God. Everything takes on a kind of futile quality. There is no cosmic importance in any of this; in a few billion years this planet will be swallowed up anyway, and long before then every last one of us, and the animals, plants, and trees, will have become extinct.
I wanna hit the road again. The only thing I want to do, the only thing I ever wanted to do, is to see for myself before I die, a kind of hoarding of impressions. Only there is no travel in sight now.