The following is a stream of consciousness piece. I've been trying to write a post for a long time and haven't been able to get the words out. This came to me the other day while I stared at myself in the bathroom and could barely make myself get dressed for the day. I was reminded of James Joyce and his moo cow coming down the road from "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man". The remnants of university English literature. Joyce was very good at this technique. This is me trying to grapple with it, at least as an exercise to keep writing. In case you are wondering the picture is of the French countryside. On most days. . .that's where I'd like to be.
Staring at the bathroom mirror.
The football game roars on in the living room. That's soccer in American.
Mumbled conversation barely audible through the door.
Thinking of all the things to do. Never looking at the reflection.
Finish dressing, the intoxicating smell of cocoa butter.
Get up, put on boots, close door, find lists, buy milk, buy bread, buy chair, buy scarf, buy buy buy buy bye bye.
Stare at phone, thumb scroll, mall stroll.
Festive music, festive cards, festive greetings, festive sales. Bought some season.
Coldness. Numb. Dizzying lists.
To do, due to, never do.
Stop. No time. Hammer time. Face time. Facebook time.
Watch. Watch life, watch people, watch strangers, watch movies.
Never really living. Watch far off places. Dream.
Dream of escape, the Eiffel tower, the smell of freshly baked foreign pastries. Smells like teen spirit and hipsters. ESCAPE.
Escape with us before every movie.
Serene. Serenity. WRITE. Write it don't dream it. No time.
Hit fast forwarded. It's almost over. It never began.
Back to lists. Fulfillment and mediocrity all in one thought.
Put bags in car. Get in car. Go home. Go to sleep. Start it again tomorrow.
Tomorrow is hopeful. Tomorrow is yesterday. Tomorrow never dies. Hope never dies.
Dreams don't become real unless you make them.
Promises of tomorrow never come.
The most wonderful time of the year. The Winter of my discontent.
Typical, cynical conversation at work. The guy didn't know Oliver Twist.
Dickens dies again.
Please sir, can I have some more?
Just 1% more of the pie. 99 Luftballons.
A little taste. Bet you can't have just one bite?
Teasing, taunting, dangling joy on a string in a box.
This is what your identity should look like.
But this is not what democracy looks like.
It's the most capitalist time of the year. Lots of good cheer.
CEO's wizzing down a giant slide holding their bags of money.
Identical everyone individual no one.
Same. Same. Shame. Shame.
Suffocating from the fumes of corporatism.
The best job in the world is the worst.
So lucky to be unhappy and a slave.
Happy is now spelled with a $ and brought to you by the brought to you by people.
Delusional, depressing. University prepares you for nothing but analyzing and despising everything.
Hating the masses. Confetti falling on crowds while champagne pops.
Poppin' and lockin'.
Lock everything in the "too sad to care" box.
Visions of skeletal 'third world' children crying. Change channel.
Sugar plum fairies are delightful.
Tchaikovsky heard everywhere. Yet nobody knows it's him.
Beethoven is now a movie soundtrack.
No longer Beethoven but part of Colin Firth's speech impediment.
Beethoven's birth house in Bonn. Small and unassuming. Picture perfect.
Not grand piano at all.
Staring at the mirror waiting for it to happen. The disappearance of self.
Happening slowly. Losing words and thoughts. Losing moments.
Memory weakening. Input: Google, Twitter and Netflix. Output: grin, buttery popcorn and satisfaction.
After the end titles, no more escape. You lie Cineplex.
The Rolling Stones knew what they sang.
Or did they? Chomsky says music is brain washing. Something like that. But much more intelligently.
Tired. Tired. Ti..red. No words. Just hopelessness. Dreams float past and above.
Grab a small string and hold on for dear life.
Life is the longest thing we ever do. Stop saying it's short.
Idiots. Everyone but me. Or maybe only me.
Humour solves all. But covers none.
Sleep. Restless. Dream of the tomorrow that won't come.
Fin. In an explicitly pretentious manner.
''Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo....'' - James Joyce
