Secret Pop

Nov 3, 2002

"Pretty face. Iron lung."

*an exclamation involving the word "Murgatroid"!*

I'm drained to empty. What a long day. What a long week. What a disconcerting number of things. I haven't really had it in me to answer all the questions or confront all the obstacles. It's just keeping on for keeping on's sake. I'm grateful for intelligent, stimulating discourse. And base humor. And a stage to play on. And for cute tee shirts and second chances and commiseration and overkill. And strangely, I am grateful for obligation -- a persistent nemesis that keeps me from disappearing altogether. I once surmised that there would come a day that I would wake up and everything would be right -- exactly as it should be. Perfect. But there will never be a day like that. And if such a day were to come, what would be the point of waking up anyway. The waking would be indistinguishable from the dreaming, and everything would just blur into that haze that keeps you from barreling forward with any sort of certainty. Everything would look like that moment just before an 87-car pile-up happens on a foggy stretch of coastal highway. Faint red lights that look far more distant than they are. A road beneath you that you can only believe in but not see. That low-contrast world holds no appeal for me. I need contrast. I need brilliant whites and murky blacks and a little less grey, if you please. It's the grey -- the haze -- that causes me to squint. And I prefer to refrain from it.

No one ever thinks I'm as old as I am. And I have no idea how old that is.

Good listener marches on.

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