Rambling M[Tr]an
Conversations [for me] are difficult, because I’m horrible at “The Art of Bullshit.” I hate disposable discussions. I hate talking about the weather, God, and Iraq. I don’t want to trade quips on economic reform or dirty my hands with anything that has to do with gallop polls. I hate deconstructionists and “The O’ Reilly Factor.”
So maybe I’m just good at rambling.
But even if it is rambling, there’s something comforting in it. When you talk to someone new -- you get to tell the important stories all over again, and then you do a self-assessment: Are you still that person? Is that dream still in your wallet, decomposing? Like a man that has experienced a bullet whizzing by him and then he conducts a checklist for genitalia, face, and chest [in that order]. Are things, are you, still in order?
It’s freeing -- that biographical, 3-hour talk before I left for California [but at least it was after 9PM]. The conversation in Huntington Beach, Barnes & Nobles in the self-help section about “what ifs” and “the importance of being remembered fondly,” or the talk about you actually doing the “Anus Monologues” because you might finally have enough material for it. The questions you had about what strippers were really like just after discussing the works of Billy Collins and John Tarrant.
My friends -- my confidants, just collages of secrets, bad jokes, and embarrassing moments. It’s all I have of them, pieces from emails, packages, and phone calls. Living life in segments instead of single thread.
Life would be easier if there were more of you all, and less miles in-between.
Currently Spinning: Garden State SDTRK
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