Marc
I looked out the Greek's dusty window and could see the past and never stop seeing it but could not summon the future, even in cartoon strokes, the strong bright Sunday of the world. -- in Underground by Don DeLillo
Atlanta, Georgia
One. Again. In a hotel room, surrounded by coziness and comforts, and for some reason can get neither cozy nor comfortable. Anxiety welling somewhere just below the part below the surface. Welling like a long year of stored up stress somehow releasing itself in a brick hotel laundry room in a basement of a non-brick hotel, surrounded by people in comfortable, cozy towels walking to the pool. Feeling none of the joy or serenity that these people seem to be filled with. Not depressed, per se. More like saddened by a perceived something that is unnameable. Just below the part below the surface.
Two. Brought on, possibly, by too much pavement. Too much time spent silently looking out the window, trying to decide just why I couldn't live in this locale, no matter the locality of that particular locale. They're all the same in the end. Houses passing by like whispers on the wind -- imagined lives of imagined people waking up early in the morning, heading to work, coming home afterwards, paying bills once a month, scraping by. Never truly enjoying themselves. Money. The root. Some houses are bigger, which means that those imagined people must have bigger, more important jobs, like pushing paper from one spot of their office to another at least three times a week. But they don't put the cars together, do they? They don't push the trash into the landfill, or scrape the grill after a long day's worth of selling re-heated meat patties, or make the world go 'round, do they? Just jobs. Just houses. The spot is unimportant. The bill is what matters. Pushing money from one spot to another, at least once a month. Scraping by.
Three. Too much time thinking. Boils down. Thoughts, in the end, are the bombs that break the buildings. Someone had to conceive it before it could be done. One man in a room alone, quietly staring at a wall, is worth more than a million men standing on a platform screaming. Something-or-other this, and hey-did-ya-hear that are inconsequential in the face of a man with a brain. Push the money changers aside and you have the right to do whatever you wish. Money. That's what's important.
Four. What would you do. What would you buy first. Snippets of questions about money. House. Car. Security. A plane ticket to an island with a never ending supply of non-perishable food items. A really elaborate pair of swimming trunks. Brain in non-functioning mode. Thinking about the basement. About the clothes on the bed. About tomorrow's clothes piled neatly on the sitting chair, ready to be filled in by someone resembling myself, but by someone who will not be the same person in five hours when the alarm will go off, and the phone will ring, and the feet will place themselves one in front of the other for a dreary, ghostly walk through a non-brick hotel, all the while looking down through the floors to the basement, wondering where all the people in the towels went and why they didn't ask me to go with them. A car. A plane. A train. Breakfast with a someone. A different day with different thoughts and different reasons for keeping it all together.
Up Next: Give Up by the Postal Service
Tomorrow: see above.
I looked out the Greek's dusty window and could see the past and never stop seeing it but could not summon the future, even in cartoon strokes, the strong bright Sunday of the world. -- in Underground by Don DeLillo
Atlanta, Georgia
One. Again. In a hotel room, surrounded by coziness and comforts, and for some reason can get neither cozy nor comfortable. Anxiety welling somewhere just below the part below the surface. Welling like a long year of stored up stress somehow releasing itself in a brick hotel laundry room in a basement of a non-brick hotel, surrounded by people in comfortable, cozy towels walking to the pool. Feeling none of the joy or serenity that these people seem to be filled with. Not depressed, per se. More like saddened by a perceived something that is unnameable. Just below the part below the surface.
Two. Brought on, possibly, by too much pavement. Too much time spent silently looking out the window, trying to decide just why I couldn't live in this locale, no matter the locality of that particular locale. They're all the same in the end. Houses passing by like whispers on the wind -- imagined lives of imagined people waking up early in the morning, heading to work, coming home afterwards, paying bills once a month, scraping by. Never truly enjoying themselves. Money. The root. Some houses are bigger, which means that those imagined people must have bigger, more important jobs, like pushing paper from one spot of their office to another at least three times a week. But they don't put the cars together, do they? They don't push the trash into the landfill, or scrape the grill after a long day's worth of selling re-heated meat patties, or make the world go 'round, do they? Just jobs. Just houses. The spot is unimportant. The bill is what matters. Pushing money from one spot to another, at least once a month. Scraping by.
Three. Too much time thinking. Boils down. Thoughts, in the end, are the bombs that break the buildings. Someone had to conceive it before it could be done. One man in a room alone, quietly staring at a wall, is worth more than a million men standing on a platform screaming. Something-or-other this, and hey-did-ya-hear that are inconsequential in the face of a man with a brain. Push the money changers aside and you have the right to do whatever you wish. Money. That's what's important.
Four. What would you do. What would you buy first. Snippets of questions about money. House. Car. Security. A plane ticket to an island with a never ending supply of non-perishable food items. A really elaborate pair of swimming trunks. Brain in non-functioning mode. Thinking about the basement. About the clothes on the bed. About tomorrow's clothes piled neatly on the sitting chair, ready to be filled in by someone resembling myself, but by someone who will not be the same person in five hours when the alarm will go off, and the phone will ring, and the feet will place themselves one in front of the other for a dreary, ghostly walk through a non-brick hotel, all the while looking down through the floors to the basement, wondering where all the people in the towels went and why they didn't ask me to go with them. A car. A plane. A train. Breakfast with a someone. A different day with different thoughts and different reasons for keeping it all together.
Up Next: Give Up by the Postal Service
Tomorrow: see above.
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