Fresh Air From The Age

“I see a harbor filled with masts and sails, wearied by the sea wind that wearies me.”

Try to flat-earth it.

I always tell myself not to title before I even write the thing, whatever it is. It sucks though, it seems like it would help me find out what the hell I’m writing about. Just a couple of words- concise and meaningful, familiar in the way a toy from one’s childhood would be.

There’s a box in some closet or another in this house. It was designed to carry about a dozen packets of printing paper and it boldly proclaims, “Office Depot”, on its sides. On it’s top is about a half inch layer of dust but underneath it is a message, written in permanent marker: “Fragile!!! LEGOS!” Someone put that box there years ago. I know it’s there, and I frequently think about it. It’s the only childhood plaything of mine that has stood the test of time and, most frequently, the furiously heated cleanings of a menopausal mother. I don’t dare to as much as read my childish hand on the top of that box. I’ve been thinking of my childhood a lot lately.

Retire Here.

So there has to be a place that’s completely devoid of anxiety, stress, and communication devices. I’ve always thought that place was homelessness– I have to be wrong. Where’s the place where I can live simply and almost hermetically? Oh it would be nice, but listen, the thing about lifeboats is that they’re made for more than one person… right? Worth it, worth it.

Pfft…

I have no defense, nor great monologue– what to do in that case? What could I ask? Ridiculously paranoia could fuck your stomach for a couple weeks and some regrets could make for blankets soaked in cold sweat. What to do?

Deep breaths are really underrated. Indulge in them, for they are life savers. An anchor in turbulent seas, an instant of air in an overwhelming crowd. Deep breaths are really where it’s at, dontchaknow.

In the next couple months I will be repairing everything that has, within the past year, apparently happened. Living is messy. Worth it, though.

Every part of that van was shaking- locks rattled on loops, steel doors screamed in metal- and with all that noise I couldn’t hear my own thoughts. “Just as well”, I thought. The driver was behind a metal grate and a fiberglass shield, his eyes hidden behind polarized shades in the mirror. I had spent the last six hours in a holding cell at a local police station after confessing to a recent shenanigan. That cell smelled of piss and sweat and the air held a thousand curses of a thousand prisoners. Occasionally,  I would make eye contact with an officer or another through the bulletproof glass, I think it was uncomfortable for both parties. Now were headed to county. Yeah, County Fucking Jail. What a fucking shame. But hey, at least I was gonna have the most surprising pleasure- a phone call.

Then they said watch.

Today I did what I’ll be doing for a while. My job is to watch unedited Associated Press video clips and archive them for Mega TV. It is ridiculously easy and overpaid. The thing that got to me though, (apart from being oh so aware that I couldn’t make my father look bad), was the unedited video part. There is no translation, there is no reporter’s voice in the back round, there is nothing heard but the wind assailing the camera’s mic or the idle, candid roar of traffic and crowds– soldiers curse, someone in a press conference farts, a woman cries when the wind changes direction and brings the tear gas towards her. People scream. If I learned anything today it is that I am incredibly privileged and that people scream more than they talk. That’s what’s in the news today, tonight, and many, many tomorrows to come. Tune in.

Said Amis after scoffing at the question.

‘In adolescence, everybody feels the impulse to write – poems, plays, stories. Writers are simply the people who stick with it. Of course, as you continue you are bolstered by craft and technique – and routine. But what we loosely call “inspiration” remains as mysterious as that first adolescent impulse.’

The Information Comes At Night.

And, meanwhile, Time continues its immemorial work of making us all look and feel like shit. You got that? And, meanwhile, Time continues its immemorial work of making us all look and feel like shit.