"Apprehensively" is perhaps too lighthearted an adverb to describe the general feeling I have about being in my hometown. It's really much closer to foreboding dread. The end of something and the beginning of something wretched, damning, inevitable.
Not that I don't constantly feel like I'm transitioning. For no reason. Perhaps I should blame LSD.
In any event, home I am, and my reportage thus far follows.
Is there a real human being somewhere on planet earth that feels a real, deep, emotional connection to any piece of art depicting, say, a pair of empty chairs on a beach looking out on the ocean, perhaps with a drink glass of some sort sitting nearby? There happens to be just such a piece of "Art" in the bathroom of my girlfriend's house, and the question was posed to her shortly after my noticing it. She informs me that my exact phrasing was, and I'll hold to this, "What a banal expression of desire."
It's such an empty, trite little gesture. Are you supposed to look at it and go "GOD! I wish I were in the Bahamas RIGHT NOW."
My lady gets a pass for having it because, in her defense, she and her sisters picked it out to match the colors of the bathroom when she was like 13. The problem is the "artist" or, more correctly, the "shill" who felt the need to communicate that, to inflict the world with their mediocrity.
More on Mediocrity later.
......
Often, indeed, more often then I'd prefer, I find myself in a group of people I know poorly if at all. There's no one in particular on whom to lay the blame for this, it's as often my own fault as that of my woman or a friend. But the situation is thus: at this point in my life, hanging out with a group of losers and idiots in a anonymous living room as they discuss the general problems they're having, (Deep breath now: "Jeff doesn't have any money, he's manic, I mean, he works like two days a week driving a cab and he makes a little money, but he lost $200 like a week and a half ago so now I have to come up with the rest, cause he was paying for me, when we together, but what was I, going to keep fucking him just so he'd pay for my bus ticket?") makes me feel like I'm slipping into a short story by Bukowski. Which, frankly, isn't a warm and fuzzy feeling unless I've been drinking.
That I'm 25 and have no patience for this bullshit does not bode well for my peace of mind in the future. I just feel like I've been pulled through a series of random interchangeable bedrooms, living rooms, kitchens, houses, houses, houses, since I was 18. Oh look! Jimi Hendrix poster! Wow... psychedelia... Camus and Chuck Pahlanuik? How... expected!
No comments:
Post a Comment