The scene is becoming shockingly familiar. I work hard in my field in the evening. Heat breaks at six, I can get three good hours of farm chores in that way. I love it, as much if not more than I thought I would. The lifestyle, the external spaces, and it sounds dramatic but the city makes me anxious, and nauseous now. Everyone rushed, exposed and insulated at the same time. The huge vehicles , rolling mech suit of false anonymity. Don’t digress.
Come in dirt on my hands, aching legs, check the news, the phone. Seven Dead in London. Organized attack. A Van mowing down people on London Bridge.
Making my genes hurt. Feel like crying, but I’m scared it won’t stop if I start. Six year old reads me like a book, as I show my wife the headline. She looks at me with horror. He wants to know what’s up. I tell him just the news, with that broken Dad energy which I’m sure he reads as bullshit.
I was ranting earlier in the night about the disgusting cabal of oligarchs that run everything. How they read people like Nabokov and Camus. How Nihilism and Nietzsche meant something to them. I spoke about the challenge of “reading between the lines”. And how truth and fiction are slippery things. Started reading The Feud by Alex Beam about the fallout between Vladimir Nabokov writer of the infamous Lolita and Edmund Wilson, writer/genius/psychopath?
Wilson at the time began as the more famous of two but after Nabokov’s controversial success, their fortunes were reversed. In any case, my mind couldn’t help but see the character from Lolita, Clare Quilty (rhymes with guilty, Clear Guilty? Nabokov loved puns) in what I learned about Wilson. Darkest bit that he was a sex addict adulterer, that went as far to put a “do-not-disturb” sign on his bedroom door as he banged the mistress, while wifey was doing God knows what downstairs. Probably rearranging carnations on the dinner table. It is a Joker like psychopathy, of the Do What Thou Wilt variety, and laugh about. Nothing is so serious. Nothing should ruin a gentleman’s calm. Rich, highly educated, above the base hoards, they are there for your use, or you their use, how ever the sick mind twists it.
Just finished Camus The Fall, it’s left a strained feeling. Joke with my wife about how I was going to institute a family wide travel ban. Frightening how little joke there is in that. Will it go that far? Can’t leave the house anymore? Drive with some body armor and a concealed carry to the grocery store? Can’t imagine it, but it’s getting closer. Don’t know.
Tried to talk tough in previous posts, spitting into the Abyss and all that. Just another act, instinctual, gallows bravado. Die young and leave a clean corpse, my Dad used to say something like that, before the grandkids. They took all his bite away. Now he complains about being too physically run down to really run with the boys. Bravado, regrets. Why do people work so hard at doing wrong?
I know. Dumb questions. Testosterone. Testicles. Impulse control problems. Mind control? Nah, I’ll stop. Doesn’t matter anyway. What’s the tab to the Devil? Anyone got eyes on that bill? Bet it’s starting to look steep. Sorry. Sorry. Not til the next round of drinks, I got ya. Think I want out. I’ll just grab a water, call a taxi, and wait outside…no, no, really, sit down, I’d prefer not.