Saturday, November 11, 2006

Who died and made you Emperor Hirohito?

It has been some time since I have sat down and composed a blog post that wasn't a completed piece of prose or an arbitrary poem I had written while consciously not writing the serious work I have committed myself to completing. It would seem that I have begun to take my writing too seriously, that I have begun to give it the weight of things unknown and thus I have long been unable to write the freeflowing gobbledigoop pieces of grandious bullshit I made this blog known for. Since the whole 3 of my readers have since moved on to other things, I am mostly writing this for myself and my own well being. But as I have always done everything for myself and in what I concieved to be my own best interest, this is no new thing and so I will not fear it. Fear rules far too much of my life, I will not grant it more. Regret has paid in advance for the space and I am not a man to breach a contract. There are rules to this world. There are rules.

It's not that I am a bleeding heart, that I feel for the depressed and the downtrodden as if they are in some way better people: saints all and closer to god. It is not the case. But life could be better than this. It could be so much better.

There have been thoughts recently of my idiom. Of what it is I write about and why it is I write about such matters and moreover why I write about such matters in the manner that I find myself writing about such matters. It is the case of fate, I may tell you, that I have come to write about love and alcohol in a the style of a degenerate confession. Or maybe it is that my youth has, despite my over-reliance on the lie as a means to resolve any situation, brought about in me a need for sincerity; for authenticity. Long did I disbelieve that it had become the case that I, like the burai-ha, was obsessed with autheticity. But it would seem that I could outrun that fleet-flooted demon for only so long. And such a time has arrived that I must confess that sincerity, or the veil of truthiness must be present in order for me to feel comfortable about my work. I cannot in good conscience write about happy people or sober people or people with real jobs in cubicles with real families in the suburbs and real relationships that will end in marriage that will end in divorce. It just rings false with me. I write what I know, what I have come to know. And it just so happens that that is myself and the small fraction of my generation that has said, with fists raised in defiance, that we don't want your life, your bullshit, or your money. With our passive sense of distrust and our complete lack of ideology we go gently into that good night with one hand down our pants and the other holding some bottle or another of cheap booze. This is life. Because everything else is pale and silent.

I didn't have a motive when I began this piece. There wasn't anything particular I wanted to say. Taking a break from watching a movie, venting about the current story I am having predicable trouble ending, I just needed to get back to my roots. If anyone reads this, welcome home. If no one reads this, then I guess we got what we paid for.

Here's to the next step. Here's to bookshelves full of books you have never gotten around to reading, and not just because they are bad and useless books. Here's to not being able to finish an application. Here's to not knowing why I want something better for myself, why I want something different, why I want anything at all. Here's to being alone watching tv on a Friday night wondering what to do when the booze runs out. Here's to telling stories, or lies, whatever the difference may happen to be this time.

1 comment:

Kathryn said...

Here's to abandonment.