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What does a metaphysician see from a corner of a cafe other than a dozen people destined to die and be forgotten — and then, turning their eyes towards the street outside: a hundred more abysmal lives, floating by like phantoms. New York on a Saturday night drowns in its own presentness; oblivious, almost happy, consumed by consuming its own throbbing life-force from within.
I wonder how I fit in — I wonder who’s looking at me from their corner of the cafe; who’s recording their observations about my looks; who’s thinking that I’m the insignificant nobody who one day will be dust.
The first thing a writer wants is to be read. Once read, they wish to be talked about. Once talked about, they want to be loved. Once loved, they want to be canonical. Once canonical, they want to be eternal. Once eternal, they don’t know what they want.
I can’t help but think of phones as the bells that goats wear to tell the shepherd where they’ve wandered.
When I was younger, I found sex more exciting because I was not so deft; because it was a challenge — becoming deft is boring, or something worse then boring. In other words, eye-contact with strangers no longer excites me.
Kierkegaard: “What is a poet? An unhappy man who conceals profound anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so fashioned that when sighs and groans pass over them they sound like beautiful music.”
When I first moved to New York in 2011 I would leave my phone at home for entire days — looking back, that time…
