Saturday, May 03, 2008
Interesting. These posts seem to be running on an almost annual frequency.
I'm thinking, again. I'm thinking I need to write again. There are so many voices out there now -- Isabella Wunder had her way, in her day and now its just a great big forest of gold prospectors.
I wish I could smoke in my apartment. I lied to the landlord. Wonderful man. Hard to stomach the lie. I should've admitted that I smoked. He probably would've liked me anyway. He used to smoke.
What motivates us to write? What motivates me to write? It seems to be some kind of loneliness that may be a bit less lonely than the loneliness of my experience in "coupledom". It seems to silence me.
Its been so long since I've written anything - I don't know how to say what I need to day these days. Perhaps I should excercise my initial technique - just write, write, write.
What happened tonight?
Do you know, I've got a bicycle now. I love that damn heavy 1971 bicycle. I love riding the bicycle. I love moving through wind and traffic - as a novice, I'm exhilarated by a my heightened sense of danger, by the speed - slight though it may be - and most of all, I'm happy to be outside again - to recover that sense of freedom which is youth, which is a connection with the air around us. How ironic that I still smoke.
I keep writing like a child searching for love. I keep searching, like an "adult" -- in quotations this word means much less than child. This is what I've found.
What masquerades here as "adult" is just a terrified child. Not necessarily in my case. I'm much more of a child. Its a deception and likely the reason we're all so unhappy - likely the reason I'm most often so happy -- and so noticeably unhappy when I am.
Becoming an adult has become so difficult that nobody knows what it is anymore. Its a marketing facade. Its a credit facade. No one has any idea. Thus, our progression becomes a distorted regression. Those who rebel are immature or "immature".
Maybe I'll go now.
