On On: Chapter the Second Continues
The bar. No literally, the bar, the place he normally watches from the reclusive booth, wishing more locales included such vinyled alcoves for invisible wishing to be moreso. The onset of Chapter the Second finds him not wishing, but wished upon. Loved ones worry. Friends confuse his absence and hope for sunnier days within him. And he, the spawn of Grendel (yes, Gardner's, no not anonymous's), does not wish. He does not wish, despite his presence and perhaps appearance to be a Bukowski or besotted Rilke (though, upon asking, he would admit to a certain piquant allure to the latter). No, he merely wishes to seek the inner sanctum of space itself, a noble circus act and one that must be performed - as it turns out in the final formula - in plain sight for the two reasons any sane person would assume.
The natural balance between both these reasons, he is noticing now, as we speak, is the self-same balance between enjoying an inebriated session of writing and getting there; the latter being the pure essence of the greater journey metaphored in micro. These reasons, for those who prefer to have their God dissected before them an an appendix not yet penned but promised and swollen wit vices waiting to be categorized. Or Virgos. They like such things the way they are aroused at the sight of See Fig. 1.
Life is littered, everyone knows, with moments out of place. They hang out by pay phones. They follow you to parking lots. They are our footnotes left in the text. Written observations, stories, etc. arrange their motivations contrary to life. They are formal films at an avant garde festival. How else are we to distinguish them from life? Sometimes an idea or subject needs merely pointed in a direction and left to its own reconnaissance. Disaster, surely, but some catastrophes are natures way of making room or distilling the gene pool. Natural selection. So, if you will, consider this a risky mutation before nature's and literature's certain scythe.
The natural balance between both these reasons, he is noticing now, as we speak, is the self-same balance between enjoying an inebriated session of writing and getting there; the latter being the pure essence of the greater journey metaphored in micro. These reasons, for those who prefer to have their God dissected before them an an appendix not yet penned but promised and swollen wit vices waiting to be categorized. Or Virgos. They like such things the way they are aroused at the sight of See Fig. 1.
Life is littered, everyone knows, with moments out of place. They hang out by pay phones. They follow you to parking lots. They are our footnotes left in the text. Written observations, stories, etc. arrange their motivations contrary to life. They are formal films at an avant garde festival. How else are we to distinguish them from life? Sometimes an idea or subject needs merely pointed in a direction and left to its own reconnaissance. Disaster, surely, but some catastrophes are natures way of making room or distilling the gene pool. Natural selection. So, if you will, consider this a risky mutation before nature's and literature's certain scythe.