I really hate the debate. Predetermination can go fuck itself, for
all I care, and still there's something so naked, in a vicious and raunchy
way, about the idea that we're all just spinning our wheels on a
destination-less highway's shoulder. Get deep enough into the process and
it's hard to find the desire to look beneath life's hood. The scenery
is catching at times, and some of the rest stops provide ample
nourishment. Still the miles go on and your concerns inevitably regress to Making Good Time.
And yet, if it all does matter, gee it sure would be nice if any greatness was of our own doing. In this one instance alone, I'd like to think of a benevolent Great Spirit dangling an uber-subtle fishing lure leading to that One Great Destiny. There's some fate involved, but we have to pursue it. It's the same feeling a socialist would get when they win the award for being the Best Socialist.
In all likelihood this is my instance of getting mired in the quicksand of narrow-objective attention. I make a decision, dig my fingernails into the armrests and look frantically around for confirmation that I'm doing a not bad thing. I'm sure my behavior could be easily explained. Psychology, being the wet blanket of sciences, is worthy of convenient dismissal, which is exactly what my present circumstances call for. I know that if my conscious is privy to some armchair psychoanalytics, I rest comfortably that I've at least by now reached by own conclusion.
Signs, I speak of. Not quite semaphores on the Santa Fe, yet neither the tea leaves Aunt Trudy reads ever since she had The Incident. Isolated, they are meaningless. Together they are something, if still not the forward motion of an attentive Gestapo agent directing traffic. They are selective, random, small, and timely. They may be no more than the image of the white rabbit's tardy ears as he bends another corner. But we've followed him this far. And he seems to think we should keep going.
First one came via the screen. I have only shilled for the cinema a handful of times this year, literally five, and three of the movies have been taken place or reached their denouement in New Orleans. Beasts of the Southern Wild is not on this list and I have been unaware of the Bayou connection each time. I sublet a friend's spare bedroom for the summer and the only thing adorning a wall when I entered was a picture of New Orleans. Everyone I meet, everywhere I turn, there seems to be some reference to Louisiana. If I want to go Close Encounters of the Third Kind on you, I'll mention where the upcoming Super Bowl will be held and tell you I'm starting to sculpt.
And then there's the financial. I returned to Brooklyn following some soul-enriching or -whatever travel with enough to pay a couple month's rent. The old job I performed middling- to, um, -middling at wanted me back and I could start right away. One month later when I realized I needed extra income to afford the move, the very day I set out to look for an additional source of employment, the very moment my email uploaded at the coffee shop, there was a message with a friend's unsolicited job offer that complemented my schedule. I could start right away.
I held this image in my head. How Perfect, I thought, would it be to buy an old VW bus in Maine and drive it down to New Orleans. It would be like doing the last thing I haven't done out here, plus the geographical significance of taking something from one of the northernmost states, down to the one of the southernmost, with a guy hailing from somewhere in between behind the wheel. I pictured it light blue. And then last month I found one, and last week I bought one, and it all fits snugly within that little budget allotted by that serendipitous job offer. Timely, too. True to form, I trust the mechanic's assessment that she'll be a dependable vessel. True to form, she's unnamed as of yet, but she's light blue. As for Maine?
As for Maine, well, I'll take her there. Next week, after I retrieve her from the mechanic. I know that doesn't exactly abide to the aforementioned imagery. I won't pretend it does. But she'll get to Maine, and we'll both get to New Orleans. As of the last few weeks, I know I'm ready. The mechanic assures me that in a week she'll be ready. And I will start that part of the dream the morning I arrive where I bought her, it's just outside of a little town called Providence.
And yet, if it all does matter, gee it sure would be nice if any greatness was of our own doing. In this one instance alone, I'd like to think of a benevolent Great Spirit dangling an uber-subtle fishing lure leading to that One Great Destiny. There's some fate involved, but we have to pursue it. It's the same feeling a socialist would get when they win the award for being the Best Socialist.
In all likelihood this is my instance of getting mired in the quicksand of narrow-objective attention. I make a decision, dig my fingernails into the armrests and look frantically around for confirmation that I'm doing a not bad thing. I'm sure my behavior could be easily explained. Psychology, being the wet blanket of sciences, is worthy of convenient dismissal, which is exactly what my present circumstances call for. I know that if my conscious is privy to some armchair psychoanalytics, I rest comfortably that I've at least by now reached by own conclusion.
Signs, I speak of. Not quite semaphores on the Santa Fe, yet neither the tea leaves Aunt Trudy reads ever since she had The Incident. Isolated, they are meaningless. Together they are something, if still not the forward motion of an attentive Gestapo agent directing traffic. They are selective, random, small, and timely. They may be no more than the image of the white rabbit's tardy ears as he bends another corner. But we've followed him this far. And he seems to think we should keep going.
First one came via the screen. I have only shilled for the cinema a handful of times this year, literally five, and three of the movies have been taken place or reached their denouement in New Orleans. Beasts of the Southern Wild is not on this list and I have been unaware of the Bayou connection each time. I sublet a friend's spare bedroom for the summer and the only thing adorning a wall when I entered was a picture of New Orleans. Everyone I meet, everywhere I turn, there seems to be some reference to Louisiana. If I want to go Close Encounters of the Third Kind on you, I'll mention where the upcoming Super Bowl will be held and tell you I'm starting to sculpt.
And then there's the financial. I returned to Brooklyn following some soul-enriching or -whatever travel with enough to pay a couple month's rent. The old job I performed middling- to, um, -middling at wanted me back and I could start right away. One month later when I realized I needed extra income to afford the move, the very day I set out to look for an additional source of employment, the very moment my email uploaded at the coffee shop, there was a message with a friend's unsolicited job offer that complemented my schedule. I could start right away.
I held this image in my head. How Perfect, I thought, would it be to buy an old VW bus in Maine and drive it down to New Orleans. It would be like doing the last thing I haven't done out here, plus the geographical significance of taking something from one of the northernmost states, down to the one of the southernmost, with a guy hailing from somewhere in between behind the wheel. I pictured it light blue. And then last month I found one, and last week I bought one, and it all fits snugly within that little budget allotted by that serendipitous job offer. Timely, too. True to form, I trust the mechanic's assessment that she'll be a dependable vessel. True to form, she's unnamed as of yet, but she's light blue. As for Maine?
As for Maine, well, I'll take her there. Next week, after I retrieve her from the mechanic. I know that doesn't exactly abide to the aforementioned imagery. I won't pretend it does. But she'll get to Maine, and we'll both get to New Orleans. As of the last few weeks, I know I'm ready. The mechanic assures me that in a week she'll be ready. And I will start that part of the dream the morning I arrive where I bought her, it's just outside of a little town called Providence.
No comments:
Post a Comment