My current incentive in life seems to be to find an occupation that will again support my drinking habit to its logical conclusion.
I am not a person capable of hard work or moderation. Everything must go! A liquidation sale of impulses, always.
There’s something to be said for getting yourself ready for a thing, but a pound of preparation readies one less than an ounce of action.
Ho-ho! Wherever did I lose track of developing marketable skills? Or stillborn, were they. I’d like to believe they can be yet, but all I have is the things that I have, and I see such little likelihood that my taste for innovation & novelty will manifest itself in my own person.
(New people arent near so familiar with my routines, so are impressed with the same old stories & little facts that I wish were parlor tricks. I cannot get near the parlor.)
My friend, a fine fellow, says that he will get me a job at his tech company. I will work there and do all manner of thing wonderful to help speed along the marvelous capitalist endeavor, helping us on our path to efficiency greater & greater till no human error will ever get in the way.
I’d like to think so. But that’s not for me. My humanities are fine & good, but these arent verifiable things. My predictions cant be tested, and arent even really predictions.
I just want to be alone & drunk, and occasionally writing things that make me smile later on reflection. The sad thing is that only little snippets of thought not even half-formed — miscarriages of cunning or wit, only — do age at all well.
An essay about anything I feel then-important just reads insipid later. I have paper notebooks with little passages opining this & that culturally relevant thing, and it could not be any less relevant now, except perhaps then as it was written.
Words are tiny ideas that can explode with great effect on a suitable mind.
Someone recently told me that elephants can remember the knowledge their ancestors had. She meant it in a pseudo-scientific way, but I haven’t heard a better definition of culture.
The Anasazi were the enemies of my ancestors. They cant harm me now, or my ancestors any longer. But we talk about history in the present tense as tho a yet-happening thing. (‘So it goes.’) It doesnt. We maintain, or reconstruct, the memories of our ancestors so they may live yet in our empathy for their circumstances.
History is all grave-digging. But good writing is a sort of necromancy for ideas long or newly dead, and if well-formed, ever-living.
We owe it to the things we write to pretend that they may live forever, be repeated forever, or at least be repeated beyond our ability to force breath & thought out.
Ancient Spirits of Evil, transform this decayed husk to something else, greater, more meaningful.
Or let me find something that pays better that I might worship you more thoroughly & often & with liquor of a middle shelf, if no higher.