Black Cat and Pants (Retrospective Prophecy)

Black Cat and Pants (Retrospective Prophecy)


"All of us, among the ruins, are preparing a renaissance... But few of us know it"
---Albert Camus



Walking across the Auburn University Campus at night is like walking across a frozen dream--deserted, forgotten, so full of vital life only hours before. The setting of the sun earlier and earlier each day depresses the shit out of me, and I always hope I can hold on through one more winter until the promise of spring once again....I've been reading a lot lately, which isn't solice for a heart unfulfilled, but seems to nonetheless connect us with those who have felt longingly before.....I crossed a black cat's path on the way to the library and wonder about the superstitious ramifications of such a move....

Every love I have ever had is gone forever and I am coming more and more to the grips of that realization with each passing minute and hour--I might be alone until the end of time, which is only the summer of 2012 if Nostradameus or anyone else has any say in the matter. I almost got knifed by Dinky's sister Bunnie the other day because I professed my disbelief in Nostradameus and if that is a capitol offense I might not make it until 2012....I only believe in stuff that makes sense, or that I have percieved personally, which are usually two totally divergant paths so who cares? I don't think the big guy is keeping score even if He cares....

I've got a plan, which might come as news to anyone else who has been keeping score, but it mostly revolves around my coming closer to the mystery of who I am. I wonder endlessly if a person can divert the heartfelt worship of women in general and unrequited love towards two women that he cannot be failed by romantically. I wonder what it is like to have two grandparents who are alive, and maybe even a biological father who remembers you. All questions only time can answer, right??

The bus grinds north as soon as $115 cash can be brought to bear on the Enemy, and the Enemy is Time and Space.

I like little saloons where you can sit down and drink a beer in peace and mourn the passing of someone like Eval Knevil and rumifacate on the end of the world in uninteruppted, staccato sentances without syntax or meaning. No one cares what you really mean as long as you have cash or something that passes for it until the cops come.

I remember once my mother called me excitedly to tell me about a pair of pants that she bought me, and this must have been within days of my finding a pair of Unionbay pants that I fell in love with and then, after a day or two of wearing them, became incredibly afraid they may have belonged to my friend Susan. After I found out this suspicion was untrue I still couldn't bring myself to wear the pants nearly as enthusiastically as I had originally.

I ran out on a bill once in Downtown Charleston, at the Mellow Mushroom that reminded me of the fact that, despite being an obvious pinwheel of my group of friends the first time I lived in Auburn, I had never been to the infamous MM downtown. My wife of the time and I think a couple friends and I darted through the beautific apocalyictically styled eighteenth century decor to the heartbeat of war drums half a world away. The Iraq War came at a particular time in my life, and will prove to be a particular time in the timespan of my entire generation that hails for digital mania and constant entertainment. We were raised on video games and murderous movies and entertainment, and were grown to be the most perfect killers history had ever seen. We are good, and know it, and waste no time in niceties.

It hit me the other day that all three of my literary heros, for the first time, it really hit me that all three were dead, and that I could remember the moment I had learned each was dead---HST, Feb 20, 2005, JH DEc 12, 1999, KV Ap 11, 2007. The death of each had brought a tear to my eye, and I remember distinctly, the day that I learned Kurt Vonnegut was dead was just before my birthday this year, and I spent my birthday in almost complete solitude, drinking drinks for us both in retrospect. I could have been at the outdoor cafe at the end of the world with any of the three, for eternity, and felt complete. I wonder if any of my journals will be one day found and of interest to someone other than a future vainly driven version of myself. I wonder if I will spawn an entire generation of copycats, and if the world could sustain such economic and social pressure. I remember the time Eminem walked into the Grammy's with a line of a hundred clones and declared his dominance on the game and I wonder what uniform I should require of my neophytes.

I wonder if a sexual encounter counts if it wasn't complete, but you still feel satisfied. Does a job well done more depend on your own, or the object's, satisfaction? What is satisfaction in a world gone hypermodern haywire? Do people in big cities still care about nature?

I remember the feeling of sacrificing everything twice---not two different sets of sacrifices, but the same ones, made twice, and knowing deep down that the objects and possessions could never be replaced or returned. I remember the regret and guilt, felt as a combined double factor of ten because it was coming both from the feelings of attachment to these things, and also, the ideas of such or the opposite, loss of everything. Now I would rather keep my possessions to fitting neatly and without cramming into a boyscout backpack, but keep these conspiracies to myself in mixed company.

I walked out today on the home I've had for a few months and a new person I met today asks--"What, you're not even going to say goodbye?" and I respond, "No, I'm a sailor, and saying goodbye is bad luck--everyone knows that"---and I wonder how many times I have left a bad impression by not saying goodbye. At heart I am a sailor, and it is bad luck to say goodbye, as it tends to lead to never returning...

We all die alone, or with gawkers who don't know what the light really means, so what else is there? I can accept that. I am not angry, nor am I afraid of eternity, alone, bitter, always cold on holidays and never clean enough. Who will notice? I stain every nice shirt I have.....

The need to escape is always tantamount and compared to the need for security.

I have a hundred lost friends, I have a hundred lost loves, I have a hundred dreamt dreams and invisible enemies. Keep score, because this is gonna be good. Sometimes we cannot recognize the destination for the journey. Most of my friends can only see the line item, and I hardly ever read the title. At the end of the day all of our shortcomings equal one well adjusted adult, so probably, we'll make it in this world if we stick together.