I wouldn’t call it liminality, but it’s something somehow akin… these spring/summer months that are always putting me at the tail end of the last thing and without a solid grip on the next thing. I’m bewildered in advance, lonely in advance, broke in advance, tense in advance, drunk in advance, just waiting for late summer and fall to come and tell me who I will be tomorrow.
You never want promises becuase they tie everyone up in knots, but without promises, all you have is the past and yourself, and you often fuck it up because you lacked the patience and faith to follow what you thought you knew… all the way through.
Cryptic, man, tres cryptic.
So I could have really turned myself into a scholar here. There’s a conference or a speaker or a panel or a referendum or a symposium ad infinitum nearly continously, three before breakfast, twelve brown-baggin’ it at lunch, and thirty-six with free catered dinner every night. There’s umpteen libraries and Marshall Sahlins is like my preceptor’s best friend or something, I hear he goes and hangs out over there and pets the dog and watches basketball all the time.
What did I do with it?
Not much. I don’t know that I ever bought into it. I always told everybody that the things in the world that I really wanted to do were, in no particular order:
- Travel a lot.
- Write a lot, preferably something helpful for humanity, though what exactly that means isn’t quite clear and the premise itself is deeply flawed.
- Take pictures a lot, preferably something beautiful to humanity, though what exactly etc. etc. etc.
- Learn to surf and learn to play the guitar.
- Open up a little bar somewhere, thereby cheating socially [i.e. having friends & acquaintances without actually having to have them] and help fifteen or twenty people get drunk or at least have a place to come when they’re down for the rest of their lives.
Damn fucking grand, ain’t it?
I don’t know that plans have changed that much. I’m just a little older. It’s like I have to do all this other shit first, though, to prove to the world (and to myself) that I’m theorizing it all properly and that I really have tried some of the other alternatives and found them as wanting as I’d predicted them to be.
Whatever, I don’t know if I even really mean what I’m typing right now.
I am a really, really good liar. Which is a shame because in general, it’s a talent I’m wasting.
Anyway… Yes, buildings around here really do look like that. Yes, that is the building in which The Pub lives.
Ghosts of people I have been
Come around and shout “obscene”
Ghosts of things I’ve said and done
Come to haunt me, watch me run
Everybody I know is falling apart
Everybody I know wants to die
Wants to find
I’m gonna go to The Pub now. It’s after six in the evening, but it’s light as day outside. Does that make the universe or our cultural-linguistic heritage the bigger liar? Or maybe I just don’t understand the nature of truth.
D’oh. You wander around for half an hour in shit, then you trip and stumble onto the profound.