Alright, now I'm back, typical for the atypical, that narrative voice of Neurogia you know and love. Bukowski's narrator is a gross and pathetic misogynist, but there's something fun and alluring to the beer-bellied, apathetic beatnicitude of it all the same. So, slice and splice, inculcate, depricate, play the typical Western mystic and take those aspects of some ancient and spiritual tradition, remove the spiritual and the ancient and the traditional, and market the rest.
I am a very good American boy.
But really, there comes a point when being beatnik stops being cute and cool and rebellious and dissident, and just becomes a drunk old man who hasn't amounted to anything, a point when I start querying the narrative because there's no way this man who just described himself as a 280-pound loser can really be pulling as much tail as he claims to be. At the risk of shattering the aura of mystery around mine Portsmouthwerk, I must say I've figured out a new facet to the philosophy major's ideal fate. Always fun and exciting.
The whole point with the last post was that I allowed myself a moment of regression. I've already established for myself the parameters of how I understand humans and their agency, but I had a relapse into a different mindset. The question was whether I should dramatize this summer [June, at least] into "internal exile" or if I could ignore the sirens' song from the coast, so far and yet so close.
The problem is that I didn't go for a run yesterday. The days to be afraid are the days when I don't run run run. On my run today, I pondered the problem - this past year I've changed to uncertain or unfamiliar settings to force myself to query new things. The challenge presently upon me, then, is to query the painfully common and certain and familiar.
Location is just a set of space-time coordinates, after all.
2 weeks ago