January 9, 2013
Nothing’s plenty for me
Things are going to change, she says, with a gleam in her eye. Her gleams are never good. What she means is, she’s going to change them, but she’s wrong about that. Things will change, though, that’s news to nobody. That’s the reason the newspaper industry is dying. Information wants to be free, we used to claim, back in the 90s, but that’s not true, not anymore. Now information wants to sell out.
Time is going to pass. That’s easy for the old to say. When you’re stuck in it, it’s like being ground between enormous shrieking whetstones, and pain brings you very much into the moment, the never fucking ending moment. You can try to hypnotize yourself — it takes a lot of practice, but it’s possible — of course, it’s easiest to get your own attention through torture, so thinking of the worst things happening, the worst eventualities coming to pass, is the most reliable method of distracting yourself from the pain. You bang your elbow to forget about your head. Invent a protective layer of pain between you and the pain; filter red light through amber. It still hurts, but it hurts in a different way now, a way you could swear you chose.
Life is teeming on the streets. I never knew what that meant until I was walking to the subway today and I saw it, all this intent, leaking out of eye sockets and nostrils, pushing mushy bodies around on the sidewalk. Some wary, some oblivious. I keep my head up and my shoulders back, scoping the periphery. Everything I do is about being better, righter, more prepared than I was before. More insufferably self-involved. Not to mention telling the same anecdotes to the same people so many times.
My jiggling leg is causing the desk to shake just enough so that the screen moves slightly, and the image of myself in the top left corner of the screen nods at me in agreement. Yes, your leg is jiggling.
Anyway, I was thinking earlier about the idea of “a light at the end of the tunnel,” and it just sounded really foreboding to me. Maybe the light is an oncoming train bearing down on you! Or even a big-ass truck! That’s the most likely explanation; tunnels are used for transportation. Or maybe it’s, you know, THE LIGHT, as in the one you are either supposed to COME TOWARDS or not, depending on whether or not it’s YOUR TIME. Maybe the end of the tunnel is the end of everything. All I know is, I’ve seen so many lights at the ends of so many tunnels, and yet I’ve never, ever emerged from the Habitrail.