June 27, 2007

• Survival

  I realize how futile it would be, how hopeless my dreams were, dreams of living a normal life and then also writing- writing on the side if anything came to me worth writing. But the life I find myself living, a life that affords its fair share of free time- regulated and limited though it is, does not seem to be conducive to producing any sort of creative thought, besides the short bursts of creativity required to get through each individual day. Routine sucks the thoughts out of my head.

  Every day, several times a day, I escape from my office- because it is damn cold- and sneak up to the roof of the building. I have done this nearly every day since the weather became warm enough for the outside to be inviting. Unfortunately, with the advent of spring came the advent of air conditioners- my boss will not open the windows as if he was afraid that any natural thing might distract us from the business at hand. Even as the air grows hotter and wetter my office is bone dry and freezing, to the point where I need the jackets I haven't worn since march.

  I get the feeling Man wasn't meant to live this way, in the sense of early rural man. But by those standards, man wasn't meant to think either; those preoccupied with taming or staving off nature long enough to survive do not have the time to create art. They do not meditate on the beauty of the snowdrifts that threaten to kill them, or the land from which they wish to coax food from. They have no interest in the more luxurious pursuits of writing about life as though it would ward off death.

  When I am not on the roof I am in the bathroom sitting on the toilet lid with my head on my knees, breathing in the summer scent of myself; shampoo and fabric softener, and the sheen of humidity that lingers in the air. I give myself away to my fatigue, the fatigue caused by sleeplessness caused by inactivity. Every night I stay awake too late for no reason, and every morning I wake too early for the same one. I live in a world of individually wrapped bananas.

  On the days when it doesn't rain the air grows so thick with dew that it muffles sound; the metal banging of the construction crew one building over softens and is more tolerable. Mold grows in clothes not instantly dried and any futon deprived of the sun begins to get that smell that everybody recognizes. I find that if I stray too far out from air conditioned regions that sheen in the air begins to cling to my skin and I begin to sweat- that feeling
  of hot discomfort I had forgotten in the long winter returns to me. It
  feels good.

  Some of you may have been wondering what happened to my plant. I never bought a bigger pot for it, and it died.

  • 10:21 am
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