Saturday, February 14, 2009

A Lovely Hallmark Greeting

The Vault has closed its doors. They are out there, lunging at imagined adversaries, bellowing and revving the engines of their giant retarded cars with T.I. cranked to full. And they are winning. They will breed with each other, will satisfy the needs of hearts unmuddled by the trappings of self-consciousness.

Weird, weird weird weird that I miss my dating blog all of a sudden, on the eve of the most colossally platonic and lonely day of the year.

Sick of it. Just sick of it, like my marrow is tying itself in knots. Elaborate hopes crushed in special ways. Her never finding out about my fucking charming idea to spend a night cooking something called "Karen A's Chocolate Dump Cake" together because she pretends she never invited the call she ignored. The deliberately unmet glances, the impregnable efface of anonymity segregating everyone from any kind of easy fun. Being ambiently hurt when a doorman asks for my ID after I stepped out only ten seconds before, and responds to my comments about same with an indignant, "I don't know you, man!" Sick of it. Sick of the weekend's insurmountable requirements here in this town, cardboard city full of half-recognized strangers. Like trying to build a happy life with a tub of incompatible legos and an instruction booklet filled with photos of dogs' assholes. And it's not much better anywhere else.

I don't know how not to be disappointed by this all the time. I have a hard time accepting that anyone does.

Monday, February 09, 2009

Counting Back from Twenty-One

Then again, anger doesn't really do much of anything but beget more anger. Another lesson I have been learning over and over again but have always somehow failed to cleave to my inner parts.

I think all I really want to do when I graduate is run around in the woods and teach kids how to catch fish and maybe fill a couple of sketch books. Just do something that doesn't make me feel like a fifth wheel every day of my life.

I can't deal with the demands of being an urban twentysomething. I don't want to get used to seeing destitute people dancing for change outside of bars, or to stumbling home weekend nights to an empty apartment, yelling at people I've never met. The party is fueled by loneliness, and the certainty with which everyone knows this but still indulge in its untruths makes it even more harrowing.

I require the same thing every person does but may not realize: a real community, contact with quiet goodness, functional relationships, family, trees, water, occasional mischief, mirth, things to learn and people to help.

I guess that chasing a career instead of learning how to nurture happiness without expensive implements is doubly foolish in the face of mounting economic catastrophe of unknown totality. I guess it was never that good of an idea.

What a staggering conceit, Supertramp. But I own it now, and it fits me well.