Words toward a Planet
It occurs to me that it's been some time since I have left notice of my State of Affairs for the curious. Perhaps it is because, deep down to tip-top, I know that no curious remain; it should be clear to anyone who has been watching that there is no room left for curiosity, that all loose ends have been tied up. This is Okay. There is never anything tragic about the future. Anyone who tries to tell you otherwise is a tyrant and a scumdog. Do not trust them.
M. Darling has suggested that I head to Nogales and then Massachussetts, and I pushed great favor at the idea. The feeling in my beef-laden gut is that this plan will come to no meaningful end, but, charmingly, I maintain some hope. There would be videotape involved, and a long car ride, significant miles-per. Windows rolled down: Good oxygen. That is worth lusting after, all things considered.
And if not that then what? I have not applied for a real job in months; a healthy balance of reasons and excuses populate the list of why. Boise is overrun with tiny labors pursued by tiny people, like most American cities: What sets it apart is the distinct lack of illusions to dispel those truths. And maybe even that is not so unique, maybe the Aura of Something is just a California thing, like Open Homosexuality, Fair Weather, and Too Many Baseball Teams. Maybe I should just rewind my shit and go back to San Diego. It never occurred to me, while I was there, but eating at taco shops frequently really is one of the Top Ten ways to live a life. Somewhere between alcoholism and blind promiscuity... I'm not sure the order.
It goes without saying there is no good life to be had here. No, not Boise... Rob my dying mother, buy a plane ticket, and disappear into the sexiest oblivion that will have me. No other choice, really. And nothing so wrong with that: Vicious and no-good, sure, but not truly wrong. You've done worse in your sleep, I'm sure. We all have.
So there, that's that, and whatever. Wherever it is I land, I do hope I see you there.
M. Darling has suggested that I head to Nogales and then Massachussetts, and I pushed great favor at the idea. The feeling in my beef-laden gut is that this plan will come to no meaningful end, but, charmingly, I maintain some hope. There would be videotape involved, and a long car ride, significant miles-per. Windows rolled down: Good oxygen. That is worth lusting after, all things considered.
And if not that then what? I have not applied for a real job in months; a healthy balance of reasons and excuses populate the list of why. Boise is overrun with tiny labors pursued by tiny people, like most American cities: What sets it apart is the distinct lack of illusions to dispel those truths. And maybe even that is not so unique, maybe the Aura of Something is just a California thing, like Open Homosexuality, Fair Weather, and Too Many Baseball Teams. Maybe I should just rewind my shit and go back to San Diego. It never occurred to me, while I was there, but eating at taco shops frequently really is one of the Top Ten ways to live a life. Somewhere between alcoholism and blind promiscuity... I'm not sure the order.
It goes without saying there is no good life to be had here. No, not Boise... Rob my dying mother, buy a plane ticket, and disappear into the sexiest oblivion that will have me. No other choice, really. And nothing so wrong with that: Vicious and no-good, sure, but not truly wrong. You've done worse in your sleep, I'm sure. We all have.
So there, that's that, and whatever. Wherever it is I land, I do hope I see you there.