It's a funny thing when you take a swig from a bottle of wine, pause to observe that it's half-empty, and you wonder for a moment if you have enough. On a weeknight. On a Monday. And it's white wine.
I think they call it pessimism.
And it's a terrible thing when you do the math and figure that your most frequent interlocutor in the last three days is your goldfish. But it's not my fault he's so talkative.
Hey, don't think for a second I haven't missed you.
All my conversations these last three weeks have been punctuated with bitter vituperations about how busy I am. I don't know what I've been so busy doing — well melbs of course, and a few fictional forays I am embarked upon, not to mention this full-time lark which is strictly, nay strictly for the birds —
Do you know I am not sure what I am going to do in the absence of a future, promised Star Wars? This realisation has snuck up on me completely unawares, way-post-Sith, leaving me sheepish and absurdly melancholic. I don't even like Star Wars.
So I'm not allowed to watch Return of the Jedi until I finish this post. One must set deadlines and incentives if one is to get anything done.
While I was waiting for a bunch of folk in pink beehives and taffetta on Saturday, I bought a Dictionary of Symbolism, by J. E. Cirlot. Let me hopelessly mystify you with the conclusion to the entry on Twins:
Friedrich Nietzsche exactly described the mystic message implied in this partial negation necessary for the salvation of the spiritual essence of Man, with his advice: 'Cast into the abyss that which lies most heavily upon you. Let man forget. . . . Divine is the art of forgetting. If you would raise yourself—if you yourself would dwell among the heights, cast into the sea that which lies most heavily upon you'; yet Nietzsche, as a Westerner, does not succeed in escaping from self.
Twins. I wonder if Senor Cirlot might even be the new Mr Maurice White.
Christ, I don't think I have enough.
Joseph | 30 May 2005