It occurs to me that my thought process is essentially analog; my thoughts flow in forms warm and cold, strong and weak, loud and quiet. I think in terms of fields, vaguely topographical, upon which I am mostly, but not completely, blind. The solution I’m looking for is always in the exact center of this topography, but I only know what the center looks like when I finally arrive there. Is this intuition?
Scouring a rural Walmart hardware aisle for a specific type of latch, listening to U2 singing “I still haven’t found what I’m looking for,” mocking me from the speakers between the lights in the trusswork above.
For y’all non New Orleans people: staying on the other side of the shotgun from where you used to live is weird. You begin to doubt your instincts. You become convinced your brain is wired backwards. When you stand up, you turn in the wrong direction to go to the bathroom.
You can only lol alone.
What if this eclipse somehow just didn’t happen? It would be even more terrifying for us than the eclipse was to people a thousand years ago. Suddenly, some very hard questions would need to be asked. Unrest; scientists, facing an incredulous public, desperately search for the moon, finally discovering that 60 years ago a researcher (the fourth of five listed authors of a widely-cited paper on the computer modeling of lunar orbital mechanics) incorrectly translated a punch-card into COBOL, because the process is mind-numbing, nothing like the life of the astronaut he wants to be, but anyway, in his distraction, he introduced a small, but compounding error. In the mean time we’ve burned down all the universities for nothing, all the scientists are in hiding, we’re all chain smoking and using computers to bludgeon livestock. The pope’s army is marching on the space station, and the caliph’s call echoes through Valles Marineris…
It’s hard to follow current events these days and not comment on them. I try not to follow things too closely (the constant breathlessness will eat you alive), I try not to become invested in the way the world progresses (after all, nobody cares what I think about things), and I try not to add my voice to the angry clamor (there are too many screaming voices as it is). But at a point one has to speak, somehow, no matter how ineffectively, to say THIS WAY OF CONDUCTING OURSELVES IS NOT OK. We cannot survive as a people of anger. We must be a people of compassion.
I have chosen to be a man of compassion. It’s not much, I know, but it strikes me as the only way to start making the world better.
Be well, and love always. It sounds cheesy, but there’s nothing in the world more important.
There’s a man on his cell phone in a stall of this upscale restaurant bathroom asking “how much the deposit was” and I wonder if there is such a thing as surreal anymore.
There are whistles in the night here in Luling; sustained and shrieking tones, vaguely metallic, always as if from some impossible distance. Everyone assumes they come from the chemical plant, I’m sure. That’s why nobody knows what I’m talking about when I mention them. People tune these strange sounds out for a variety of reasons, all centered around the necessity of avoiding confrontation with the unspeakable. But popular opinion on their origin is immaterial in this case: what if these tones are not the sound of the plant itself, but the sound of some effect of, or even response to it? I can’t help but feel they constitute a warning, or worse, some supernatural version of “Taps.”
I find myself staying up late to listen to them.
Life is not a contest of strength, but a function of grace.
These days it seems like the whole world is a highway lined with tourist traps: word got out that we’re all yokels on a long and confusing journey, ready to jump at the chance to purchase anything that reminds us why we’re so far away from home.