I guess the problem is that I have nothing I need to say. I wouldn't say that I'm the strong, silent type (or even the frail, silent type). I'm not silent. But, I have nothing important to say. No strong opinions about current affairs. No music reviews. No advice.
Still, I've always dreamt of being a writer. I've imagined myself sitting in a bourgie cafe staring fiercely at an assortment of scribbles on a yellow legal pad. To my immediate right is a partially consumed cupette of cold espresso. I'm smoking and wearing a cardigan. My legs are crossed the way that any important artist will cross his legs. Most importantly, my table and my body are outside splitting the seam between luxury caffeinery and a bustling Brooklyn sidewalk.
Obviously in this abstraction I'm stressed. Even so, this is my reverie. It charms me. It's brimming with a sparkling mix of purpose, defiance, and erudition. It's an image I could be proud of. That guy seems cool.
It's ironic. I'm living this fantasy now (less the cigarette, cardigan, yada, yada). Here I am in my Brooklyn apartment. Looking out my window. Splitting the difference between boredom and bustle. I'm stressed. And I'm writing. It's a terrible thing.
:
There was a mid-century French psychoanalyst: Jacques Lacan. We can get what we need but never what we want. Desire always eludes us. Or, rather, the satisfaction of desire eludes us.
Desire always needs to be expressed as lack. As a hole. As an emptiness. Just as a hole filled is no longer a hole, as soon as desire is "satisfied" it is no longer desire. It's a torturous cycle of yearning and getting and yearning.
All the details of my dream or simply the form--a reductionist image.
Yes, I'm unhappy, but I'm not upset about being unhappy. I've come to terms with it. I haven't measured up for decades. And, at this point I'm unphased (and prideful of that). I don't need success. Instead, I can be unhappy. A particular freedom.
My box-fan is still no substitute for the charming sound of muffled coffee-shop chatter. The trail-mix I'm chewing on isn't quite as refined as a shot of hand-crafted espresso. I think I can keep writing for now. Silently.
Still, I've always dreamt of being a writer. I've imagined myself sitting in a bourgie cafe staring fiercely at an assortment of scribbles on a yellow legal pad. To my immediate right is a partially consumed cupette of cold espresso. I'm smoking and wearing a cardigan. My legs are crossed the way that any important artist will cross his legs. Most importantly, my table and my body are outside splitting the seam between luxury caffeinery and a bustling Brooklyn sidewalk.
Obviously in this abstraction I'm stressed. Even so, this is my reverie. It charms me. It's brimming with a sparkling mix of purpose, defiance, and erudition. It's an image I could be proud of. That guy seems cool.
It's ironic. I'm living this fantasy now (less the cigarette, cardigan, yada, yada). Here I am in my Brooklyn apartment. Looking out my window. Splitting the difference between boredom and bustle. I'm stressed. And I'm writing. It's a terrible thing.
:
There was a mid-century French psychoanalyst: Jacques Lacan. We can get what we need but never what we want. Desire always eludes us. Or, rather, the satisfaction of desire eludes us.
Desire always needs to be expressed as lack. As a hole. As an emptiness. Just as a hole filled is no longer a hole, as soon as desire is "satisfied" it is no longer desire. It's a torturous cycle of yearning and getting and yearning.
All the details of my dream or simply the form--a reductionist image.
Yes, I'm unhappy, but I'm not upset about being unhappy. I've come to terms with it. I haven't measured up for decades. And, at this point I'm unphased (and prideful of that). I don't need success. Instead, I can be unhappy. A particular freedom.
My box-fan is still no substitute for the charming sound of muffled coffee-shop chatter. The trail-mix I'm chewing on isn't quite as refined as a shot of hand-crafted espresso. I think I can keep writing for now. Silently.
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