Slot

I felt it in the air today; I felt it in the view of the grand highway vista; I felt it in the full moon; I felt it in the vapours of an attic room; I felt it in the rumbling of the car engine under me. Some sort of infatuation, but directionless. A huge fat abstract wreck looking for something to tether it down, something to sit it down on the Chair which is very straight & real & actual. But there is a problem; there is no object to direct this occassionally-upwelling infatuation. So it'll wear off--tragically.

So long as I keep what "passion" floats my way up above my limbic system and behind my facial expression, all is well, in a sense. I can go off and in my mind undertake mystical journeys, the whole time flanked by that painfully abstract representation: the Companion. Just today, I imagined myself out on an anti-whaling ship, letting my beard grow long and matted, decked in some stylishly shapeless sweater to keep out the winds of the south seas: some sort of anti-Ahab. A short-lived fantasy, to be sure. And the Companion is just an empty slot: insert 25 cents, gas goes here, out of stock, parking $4/half hour, "can I help someone over here?", vacancy (TV and adult videos), condemned by order of the Vice Squad.

Someone once asserted that 3/4 of our waking life is imagination, or driven by imagination. Something like that. I will not pass judgement on the assertion (realistically: who can?), but I find it comforting. It allows me to fabricate at will, until I don't know the difference any more.

Overheard Quote: "...I don't know how and I don't know why and I don't know Why."