Our brains choose to act out, when we relax our feudal control over their potential (singular, as they have but one potential). Make no mistake, only decide which.
Hapless, anti-hero, wanna be, coulda’ been, has been. He sits comfortably (another artistic cardinal sin) in phase two the only way he could in Chapter The Second of the Spiral Notebooks of Malted Lugi Brigg. He sits at the bar dressed up to be up, feeling the swim of rum and staring at a trash can.
Nothing about it is lost on him, and he could be drinking to the Death of the Dandy. But the truth is less sophisticated. He realizes it like Aschenbach in Mann’s classic on siren beauty. What exactly this is is open for discussion, and in fact begs such. He ages and the edges of his suit brush up not against the clouds of best intentions, but the dust-filled corners of what awaits him, the moment he accepts the unreal real foretold in a hundred didactic tales. He can no longer tell the difference, save for the thread count of the linen jacket he sports out of respect for the eye-minds of those patrons now entering for an early lunch.
Faced with sex now, he could go the better part of the day, rum urging the blood flow necessary and dreamy consequence of happiness. But more than sex he wishes the entire scene were one from a brand new indie film. One where he were the star and one that would catapult him at once past the public eye, down deep into the space in people like himself who would whoop and cheer and something finally reaching that emotional G-Spot not yet uncovered by even the grittiest and innovative foreign flicks.
Plagued by context as much as he is idle conversation, he sits, ash-can staring, barely transcribing, pondering what is lost in the translation from whirlpool booya and the unedited chatauqua dirtying the pages before him. If there could be hypertext markup which would indicate the instances or regret, you would give up on this whole thing, what with so much red and rollover balloons explaining away.
Which leaves us with claustrophobia, the third part of the routine of Grendelspawn. It will wait until a proper setting. It suffers from (fear of open spaces), and thus must wait for walls. He wants to add - and so does - that it is not as strange as he would imagine that he is smoking a Cuban cigar and listening to Journey here in the bar. He dizzies at the swarm of possible metaphors this could become, if have not already become in your mind. Someone walks by him to the restroom to freshen up, and he accepts for a moment that he is indeed a part of the very earth he accuses of misdefining him.