Misses

O such calamity! I miss the exilarated non-sobriety of months past. I miss sitting on a stairwell waiting for my angel muse to waft down from the raftes and slap me around. I miss the rays of mid-afternoon sun burning a hole in the back of my head as the sweet syrupy goo trickles down my neck. I miss rioting and uproariousness despite my criticisms of it. I miss the opportunities not taken anywhere but in my head: I could have travelled to Sudbury; I could have made snowmen with the Natives of the Abyss and talked legends; I could have made my rounds among the Bodhisattva bums of my own neigbourhood but all I did instead was give them some money. I miss relaxing on the wooden booth where skeletons are carved in to remind you of your mortality always. I miss fearing that I had high cholesterol, but it turned out that I had high HDL (in layman's terms: the good cholesterol). I wish elevated levels of DHEA had knocked me from my torpor months ago. I could have rigged Chinese lanterns and carved enough pumpkins to stack up to the second floor; I could have made bicycle roulette wheels to hang from our tree out front; I could have waked these streets when I was free and not swathed in blankets; I could have saved orphanages in Chicago by drinking all their rum so none was left for at least one weekend of sobriety and fear for the future. I still fear for the future, but I'm regaining my Eastern European fatalism. Shit has happened to my particular phylogenetic lineage at a fairly consistent intensity; high seletive pressure molded us well. I don't know if I have any Jew in me, but it would fit. I almost tried the hippie thing, but not even living in this inherently optimistic society can make me that positive in outlook. I guess I've always gravitated to those who managed to strike the right chord of exhaustion. Brilliant, justified exhaustion, but nevertheless a world-view that people have a lot of trouble with. What do you expect? Look at the name of this weblog.

Incidentally, I have retained a good episodic memory trace of how I came by the name. The scene was Burwash dining hall, Victoria College, University of Toronto. November 3, 2004. I was sitting with a friend at the southeast table eating a single green apple and maybe some soup. We were discussing the election in the US the day before. I went on a rant which featured several pessimistic explanations on how things will get worse and people will never learn. Overall, a tightly wound bundle of doom and glom inferences. I suppose everyone with even the slightest bit of liberalism in them felt that way on that day. (The night before I saw an American from Vermont lose control of his emotions. All of them.) My friend said that there was no point being obstructively cynical about what happened. The a few days later, for unrelated reasons, I started this. There is the boring story.

Consider: "Sacrifice."