Sitting in the cafe and waiting for the funicular of this chocolate to take me to elevation. I've been thinking a lot lately about death and human history and Jesus Christ, watching people eat things is terrible absurd and infuriating in this miasma of funk cafe nightmare with photographs of birds on the walls and this woman flicking muffin crumbs from her fingers with her ape hands is fucking disconcerting in the utmost right now. There is the barista with the black hair, long, curled up on her skull like rodentia homes and the other one, the Catholic, blonde, with the Marian medallion and the crumb woman is blonde also and there too is an older man, Cenobite-like, wearing sunglasses as he eats a breakfast burrito with sour cream. Insanity. Every direction. Send help.
Playoff hockey started this week. What a grand time to be alive. Lord Stanley's cup has been around for 100 years and it's the determination of men to put knives on their feet and a club in their hands and venture out onto the ice to engage in combat that really puts the hooks in me. I can't, as I think I've noted before, even roller skate and these actors on their frozen stage is drama of the highest order. We repaired to the bar yesterday in our failure and watched the contestants engage and there was a dog and Guy Fieri on the other tube and no one in the place judged us for our lapse in abstention and later, there was ramen shrimp and movies with Julianne Moore and much crying about beauty in the face of absurd violence that is, seemingly, the default condition of our hilariously maladaptive race.
I am supposed to go to confession this afternoon but heartily doubt that I'll make it. At AWP, I was speaking with a woman about our shared and bad Catholicity and we were unperturbed by this somehow, relishing almost in the assurance of God's graces that we'd somehow make it out okay if the afterlife is what it has been said to be.
I worry a lot about dying. Not about the fact of it looming, but the terror beforehand, the drop from altitude, the catastrophe that necessitates a grueling slog into the tomb, the fear of holding your children close and lying to them in the run up to non-existence. Sometimes, I wish I could get out of my own head.
I've been writing, natch, futilely and forward into nothing that matters. Each time I try to explain this to someone else I embrace frustration. I'm 37 and I'll never be on any list of anyone under a certain age as a writer and this reality is much like the muffin eating woman above in her vexation. Again, maybe I'm just insane or, at the least, vastly in-equipped for life's current projection.
There's that funicular. Vaya con dios, hombres.
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