Wednesday, December 08, 2004
maybe if my fantasies had fantasies?
these days, there are few things that bring me more satisfaction than writing in my journal. and that is because i am completely and totally in love with every thought i have. ever. how in love? so in love that i pose questions to myself and then answer them in order to simulate a dialogue that is, in fact, me talking to me.
how in love? remember that scene at the end of blade runner where rutger hauer is talking to harrison ford about dying? i always lose it during that scene because i imagine a world in which my thoughts do not exist.
worse yet is the thought that i might not ever be able to share my thoughts. i mean, here i am, thinking all of these things, and they're just flitting by, not being captured, saved, held, preserved. and then i'll die, and no one will have heard them. like wallace stevens once wrote in a letter, "It is quite impossible for me to express any of the beauty I feel to half the degree that I feel it; and yet it is a great pleasure to seize an impression and lock it up in words: you feel as if you had it safe forever."
there's a total arrogance to everything i'm doing and saying right now that would make one think i have a lot of self-confidence, but that would be false.
so i'm sitting in a coffee shop yesterday afternoon, writing in my journal, an activity which, around the right people, generates a certain degree of mystery. i'll talk about generating mystery later. but nevertheless, with glasses on, pen in hand, and that unmistakable look on my face that says i am a danger to myself, i sometimes feel like i can warp space-time and draw attention to my little event horizon in the corner.
facing me from the next table is a woman with a laptop island emerging from a sea of books. the book at the top of the heap has something to do with the movements of the poor, so i can only assume she's into the intersection of kinesiology and marxism ("winchester, you throw like a prol"). she is beautiful; she is beautiful because i felt there was something concrete about her. she is a woman who pays bills, who drinks too much coffee, who likes ridiculous things because they are ridiculous and because she is well-acquainted with the frustrations of trying to keep a roof over her head and spare change in her pocket. it is the beauty of age, of maturity. she is beautiful because i saw her and i made assumptions and ultimately, she is beautiful because i say so. call it an act of creation, or at the very least, of interpretation.
and i began to fantasize an encounter with her, and my fantasy ran like this:
she gets up from her table, and instead of walking the long way around, she takes the shortcut by my table. i seize my moment.
"excuse me? i know this is very forward of me, but i was wondering if you would meet me here at this time next week?"
she would be flattered, and she would say, with a smile,
"it's nice of you to ask, but i'm seeing someone."
my fantasies are kinda like the corn chips at the bottom of a month-old bag. they've been exposed to the oxygen of reality and now they're slightly stale. but if there's nothing else in the pantry, they'll do.