So it’s been a strange day. Okay, it’s been a strange fucking year. And now I’m only three entries into a new Web diary and it’s already time to start the musing in earnest. Or whatever. Jesus, everything starts to sound like television anymore. Maybe that’s what happens when television tries hard to sound real, and is successful… all the while remaining as omnipresent as it ever has. Instead of television sounding like reality, reality starts to sound like television.
Okay, so the two are interchangeable anyway. I know that. Or at least, I’m supposed to.
But nevermind. Whatever. It’s like 10.45 and it’s just a wierd point in my life. I don’t know where I am or what I want, and I can’t tell how I feel about nearly anything. I’m just… as I got caught saying earlier… “calling them like I see them.”
Is this that mid-life sense of enhanced ennui that I’ve seen in all my friends — that I’ve been expecting, too?
I went back to Chicago last week for a few days to walk at the University of Chicago’s autumn convocation. The convocation I could take or leave. It was what it was, who cares, blah, blah. But while I was there, I couldn’t help but feel as though I’m letting life pass me by somehow… I couldn’t help but fall in love with the city. Not “Chicago” the city, but “the city” the city, with tall buildings and crazy subway passengers and trash everywhere and gruff cashiers, so that one single strand of lights on a little chair by a window, or one nice doorman in front of the Hilton, can make your week. Not make it acceptable — make it wonderful. We don’t have cities like we have Out West.
We just got the fucking burbs, and we’re cynical as hell. Not gruff, not busy, not introverted, not preoccupied. Just cynical and angry and sad.
Tonight I miss what I never had: a truly urban (not suburban) childhood Christmas.
I’m gonna go back to Salt Lake City and watch me some football and eat me some candy. I’m gonna pet me a beagle.
In a few days, it’ll be 2005.
In just over a year, I’ll be 30.