Past
The sky was mauve and the snow glowed neon, little flurries bouncing through the air toward my window like flies and I, entranced by the scene, alone, was reluctant to sleep. I wanted to catch the purple sky and orange snow. It was like a sunset I didn’t want to miss, but I had to that day we walked along the littoranea on the black sands along the Gulf of Naples. The women were going back to the house because it was cold and as we crossed over the railroad tracks I turned on the overpass to glimpse the sinking sun but a structure blocked my view. Dejected until I remembered we could see it from the roof, I ran up the hill to the villa but it was too late when I arrived, alone; the sun had sunk and all that was left was the descending dusk and I, downcast, returned to the apartment with its cold tile floor in mid-evening of the December gloaming. But that night I came home late, bibulous and young, with work in the morning, I kneeled on my bed, wanting to mentally photograph the view.
Present
Days I stay in without leaving my office, a couch and coffee table, where like a Bond villain in miniature I sit surrounded by screens, my books make me feel like a hermit or a writer. They lie stacked on the coffee table, naked and ruffled, while I, proud and in want of a shower, scratch myself, disgustingly male. I gauge my time and plan it around meals, anticipating my body like a flower in spring. I think of swans and reject myself or give in, standing with juice in my hand on the way to the shower, wondering why I prefer a fake bird to a real girl. It all seems malignant, or at least when it does, I give up. The object of my focus is grander than can be accomplished in a few sittings, and when it is not, it is usually money, which I try to speed to, or distraction, a subconscious peril. The biggest objects in my life are a title Helvetica, big Helvetica letters. Or waterfalls and bus rides, which do not appeal to me less the older I get, though some say they should.
Future
Later, I try not to bad mouth, though I seek solidarity. This is human, I tell myself, and I try to move the conversation into the realm of ideas. This works best under the influence of caffeine. A friend tells me about Arthur Cravan, who once filled a hall by telling people he was going to commit suicide. When the time came he entered the stage in a jockstrap and uncoiled his great manhood and called the audience sick bastards. I wonder if it takes a great manhood to do great things, or if those with excessive dick have excessive pride. Henry Miller had six inches. Perhaps he is overrated, I consider. We move to talk of others and my friend tells me that Gide’s work, not that he’s read it, has not stood the test of time. I wonder if it’s because he turned down Proust. I vow to read The Guermantes soon.
The post Fee Simple Absolute appeared first on Daniel Ryan Adler.