Wednesday, April 02, 2008
More of the Same
April already? Really? Winter just started. Hell, it was just Thanksgiving.
The trees budded. It's light out at 8:00. It's bright out, but still cold.
I've never before felt I wanted to hold back time like now. The summer will be by, another fall, and I will expect the calendars to read 1999.
I feel 21. Not like I did when I was 21; then I scarcely felt.
When I was 16, I made problems up to see how many I could leave unsolved. They were biting flies that swarmed me. Terror and beauty were no different. Abjection and beauty. Desolation and beauty. I wanted to somehow draw inside me the thousand night lights of the oil refineries along the Turnpike, near Newark Airport. I wanted to draw them past my reflection into the car into my self. That they represented some grand truth I knew certainly.
I wanted simultaneously to be destroyed by wickedness and to defend purity. Even if that sounds trite, it is also true.
I still make up problems. Now I solve the problems too. Each fly is hardier than the next. Each next whisks with it the thrill of maybe being the one that prostrates me.
I remind myself that when I fixate on the past or the future, I miss the present. I hold my breath, I force a deep breath, I imagine popularity or rejection. I hold my breath. If I'm lucky, I'll think, this is right, which it no longer is. Then I force a deep breath. Then I rue.