I'm asking you in advance to pardon my pathos and indulgence on this one...
So, reading Knut Hamsun's Hunger was a real great opportunity to commune with my secret desire for absolute oblivion, although, truth be told, I doubt I'd ever have Hamsun's strength for utter abjection. Also, while Hamsun's vagabond raves through Christiania (now Oslo), he actually writes; something I, evidently, don't really do (unless it's a matter of berating Mr. Grody, which inspires no end of eloquence, and requires me to exercize Herculean efforts at self-control not to go on far longer than I already have. Oh, the sweet elixir of righteous hater-tude!). The fact is, I live in fear of how much my writing will totally suck, should I actually embark upon it. To be completely honest, I find most of the thoughts in my head to be rather tiresome; bearing, quite frankly, the obvious earmarks of the only real abjection, which is, of course, mediocrity.
(I'd like to break in here, though, and note, for the record, how dearly I love the word "abjection." It reminds me of my Nine Inch Nails phase, and of reading Julia Kristeva's The Powers of Horror voraciously, every word a lightning bolt to my theoreticized soul. Thank god those days are over. Trent, I hope you've grown up by now.)
Good lord, people. I am totally appalled at myself! Time's always a-wastin' and I feel like I accomplish so little. I mean, I have my little monkey, and all these years, I've taken good care of him, so I guess there's that. I've raised a remarkably good and clever boy; but now, unemployed and, it must be said, utterly lacking in motivation to mark any more time as someone's office bitch, I feel like I've really hit rock bottom in terms of having anything whatsoever going on, and also as if I am sitting back, watching the downward spiral (which, really, is another thing that was kindred to my current state in Knut Hamsun's book: the clinical detachment with which his hero describes his own dissolution into starvation and mental instability; although, you can rest assured, people, I am far too middle-of-the-road to go that route).
Instead, I have put myself up as a candidate for a PR job in cycling, and will likely interview for it in a couple of weeks. It involves a move far, far away to a place where none of my beloved Hollywood friends would ever visit me. On the bright side, there's my dear Matt "Let's Parse this Photo" Ambrose, whom I could hope to see everyday in that new locale, and that's a big, BIG, plus, because Matt is pretty much THE RULING-EST.
Other than that, I am dreaming up scenarios in which I would become a bohemian ex-patriot, perhaps in Prague. Or maybe romantic, Scandinavian Denmark? I have a very kind friend in Denmark who offers us a place to set up shop and look for work. I mean, yeah, I know, it's a crazy-sounding plan; but I feel like taking a chance on changing things up. Also, I do suffer from some anxiety that G. W. Bush may be re-selected by some combination of the voters, DieBold electronic voting machines, and if all else fails, the Supreme Court. If that happens, God knows how much I don't want any part of it. Maybe it's time to realize my lifelong dream of a vagabond lifestyle? Jacob and I can become gypsies!
Or, maybe I'm out of my mind.
One thing is certain: I feel like I'm living on borrowed time, and when I think about my situation in the privacy of my own brain, there's no shortage of melodrama. Just FYI.