That last post feels like such a fluke. Garbage. Miscellaneous bullshit. What have you.
There are a couple of EDM shows happening tonight. For weeks I entertained the idea of going. Now that the “eve is upon me”, indifference overwhelms me. Something has kicked my passion in the gut and it’s still contorted on the ground, clutching its organs in agony and defeat. “I’ll get up eventually” it tirelessly muses.
Currently, I am reading Slaughterhouse Five. Last night I finished Player Piano. Amazing how the bookends of a great author’s career could be consumed hours apart from each other, yet at the time it took decades of waiting. So far, the narrative unfolds much the same way one of my favorite films, Waltz With Bashir, does. Searching. Searching for a story burrowed deep in the brain, a story itching to get out yet nearly impossible to grasp. It’s that fly stuck in your house that bangs against the windows, keeping you up all hours of the night but you’re too slow to trap or kill it. So that fly just buzzes around some more, whizzing in and out of the soundtrack to your day, ten minutes here, ten minutes there. Perhaps “searching” is the wrong word. “Dissecting.” “Attempting to understand.”
Anyway, it’s good so far. The book, not the fly. But since you asked, all of mine are trapped in a little jar. I just don’t know when to let them loose.
So many of my memories are a waste.
