Sorry but this has nothing to do with the title.
Rarely is it in me to write something related to current events.
Nothing new can be said really, with all the pundits and pseudo-pundits, so why try?
I did watch the election though, and I was happy/relieved when Obama got more than 270 electoral votes.
And then, on Facebook, I saw someone’s status update about marijuana being legalized in Colorado.
I thought it was a joke, until I scrolled down farther and saw another update about marijuana being legalized in Washington.
Colorado and Washington. When will Texas join? When will Florida join?
Seems inevitable, a matter of time.
To celebrate I ate a home-cooked dinner with avocado and rice.
Still feeling good on Wednesday, I ran to Half-Price Books and found 3 books for 3 dollars.
Immortality by Milan Kundera.
Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates.
Paradise by Larry McMurtry.
Think about what I just did there.
I wrote about what I watched and what I did on the Internet and what I ate and what I bought.
How insignificant? A waste of everything: your time and mine.
I might as well take pictures of myself in the bathroom mirror.
5 pictures taken of Neal Armstrong on the moon and 38 pictures of me in the bathroom mirror.
I have to guard against redoubling my triviality.
I like that, redoubling my triviality, because how trivial can I get?
That’s why I’m writing another novel. To save myself and everyone around me.
I’m not writing it right now. No. I’m writing this complete and utter waste of words right now.
But this isn’t entirely worthless. It’s something I have to do. A motion.
I think of this like revving my car a little before I kick it into reverse and then in first and drive away.
I think of this like stretching my body before I hit the pavement for a run through Austin.
I think of this like tasting a spoonful of dinner to make sure it tastes right before sitting down and plowing.
I think of this like yawning and clearing my throat before speaking.
I think of this like taking a shower, which I haven’t taken yet, and should probably do before I sit down to write my novel.
And I should probably drink more water and empty my bladder before I sit down to write my novel.
And I should probably find the perfect music before I sit down to write my novel.
And I should probably close the blinds and lock the door and do jumping jacks before I sit down to write novel.
And I should probably read every single book I haven’t read but intend to read before I sit down to write my novel.
And I should probably stop typing this before I sit down to write my novel.
No, wait, I have to stop typing this before I can do that.
All the things I can do (and have to do) before sitting down to write my novel.
The list goes on and on. Time goes on and on.
Giacometti died when he was 65.
What if I kept writing this until I turned 65, and then I died?
Didn’t stop writing this that started out as a complete and utter waste of words until I turned 65?
This that was meant to guard me against redoubling my own triviality, on and on, until I turned 65?
Would it get any better? Would it gain insight? Self-generating insight.
Probably, like everything, there would be glimmers of hope, strong passages of merit, but mostly it would be shit.
I leave you now with nothing.
I leave you on empty.
I’ve driven you down this back road until you have nothing left in your tank.
I leave you now a little bit closer to the dark.