Sit still in a busy room where people come in and go out all the time and you begin to hear some kind of pulp music beneath all the activity. It’s 2004. I’m at the University of Chicago. I’m twenty-eight fucking years old. It’s been thirteen years since I was a high school student and eighteen years since the green carpet room with the green drapes and a quarter of a century since Leia and I used to play in the tire pile outside the Gennessee Avenue apartments.
I claim to feel alone a lot but when people I know come around and suggest hanging out in one way or another, I never go along. I don’t gain all that much from their presence. I don’t gain all that much from anything. Things are happening around me and I am a bubble of Borges’ ecstatic instantenaiety, immutable and smiling like the Mona Lisa.
Well, not immutable. Someday I’ll be dead.
Suddenly from out of nowhere, I was reading Harold J. Laski on the Communist Manifesto. It was the first time I’ve been motivated to do anything in weeks. Now I’m done with it. D’oh.
What will be next?
“The chief obstacle in the path of transforming the prerevolutionary into a revolutionary state is the opportunist character of proletarian leadership: its petty bourgeois cowardice before the big bourgeoisie and its perfidious connection with it even in its death agony.
“In all countries the proletariat is racked by a deep disquiet. The multimillioned masses again and again enter the road of revolution. But each time they are blocked by their own conservative bureaucratic machines.” (Trotsky)
“Political Freedom without economic equality is a pretense, a fraud, a lie; and the workers want no lying.” (Bakunin)
Those two don’t really go together. And yet somehow, they do.
Imagination is everything and just today I have none of it.
Duchesse De Borgonne.