April 5, 2015 § Leave a comment
I’m walking with you and you lucid dream a slaughter of pigeons,
impaling them? slicing their heads off, your little enemies,
before eyeing the woman in front of you, expressing the desire to bury your foot in her ass,
and I think again of American Psycho, and how when a normal routine has been sufficiently repeated as to be banal, we might construct increasingly elaborate ways of fucking things up, just for a little variation.
Fitzgerald, was he an alcoholic? Zelda liked to party, you say. Did he kill himself? Did she? Too commonplace to be of note, we note, if a writer was, or did, either.
With sufficient distance from childhood it would seem that there remains nothing unsullied, save perhaps the odd image: landscapes, sunlight, beaches. Pure mental images as opposed to things lived. And it is difficult to say what is beautiful, especially if you consider that we might have learnt beauty, and good taste; if you entertain that our aesthetics might have been received as part of our cultural conditioning.
There is a kind of secondary vision that may be without cure, an external consciousness that disallows instinctive living. Internal deliberation, multiple voices. Somehow this kind of thinking robs any moment of its authenticity, renders a scene a scene, makes it insincere, in a way. There is a sense of this not being real, because I’m looking at me looking at you and directing accordingly.
Conversations in my general vicinity have lately been reoccurring on the themes of desire and ambition, consumption and pleasure. I understand the former as things constructed, created, insisted upon, and understand the latter least of all.
I’m walking with you and you’re talking out your hypochondria, awaiting a stroke, a sensation, something pinching, in your head,
and I mention yeah I think about dying equally much
and I do, even so shallow as to consider suicide fleetingly every time there looms a deadline, even so stupid.
Like you, I imagine falling down stairs each time I descend them.
I do not take the elevator alone because I do not want it to jam with me inside it, and I always consider the eventuality.
The last beautiful thing I saw was maybe the most obvious beautiful thing, a small child, hand held, twisting around on the escalator. Looks at us and she smiles at both of us