Any Number of Old Ladies
2/12/2010 8:12 AM – 8:32 AM
It’s reminding me of the old days back in Buffalo. I’m tired and waking up is something that someone else should do. But it’s me and my life, left alone, I’m still in my own company. I sat, which is good, but I’m fuzzy and I didn’t make it to a solid three count.
I guess it’s just walking. I guess it’s just getting up and doing the list of things that you know that you should do and doing it every day and hoping that eventually it adds up to something. It’s cold today and the sun is shining and that means the sky is blue as blue. My body is a vaguely connected series of aches and I keep thinking about girls and how old I’m getting. No worries, which is great, just a curiosity of some unspecified sort. There are so many things to do and not enough time to do them all and still get enough sleep. I haven’t been watching TV for a few days. Well, not since my days off. Even if I follow my list and do all the things that I need to, well, maybe if I did that, I wouldn’t feel bad about watching TV.
“I keep thinking about,” is a good phrase to write. It means that I’ve been thinking. I’m always thinking, but thinking doesn’t mean as much to me as it once did. I’m curious if this would make me a better or a worse philosophy major. I was always in a state of ambivalence when I saw people that found their school work interesting but not particularly meaningful. If it wasn’t meaningful, why would I put any effort in it? If it doesn’t actually contribute the project that is being a human being, why give it more than a cursory glance? But they did their homework and didn’t struggle over every little bit on minutia at the question’s core and they handed in their papers and got good grades and worked as TAs and went on to grad school and I washed dishes and doubted the meaningfulness of everything and didn’t have enough money to buy more than crackers at the dollar store for lunch for a week. “I don’t think it’s worth it,” I would tell my younger self, “but I don’t know for sure. I haven’t died yet.” And after I’ve died, who knows? Holden’s creator is dead now. Holden doesn’t give a goddamn. Holden is a bag of bones. Holden is worth any number of old ladies.
It’s reminding me of the old days back in Buffalo. I’m tired and waking up is something that someone else should do. But it’s me and my life, left alone, I’m still in my own company. I sat, which is good, but I’m fuzzy and I didn’t make it to a solid three count.
I guess it’s just walking. I guess it’s just getting up and doing the list of things that you know that you should do and doing it every day and hoping that eventually it adds up to something. It’s cold today and the sun is shining and that means the sky is blue as blue. My body is a vaguely connected series of aches and I keep thinking about girls and how old I’m getting. No worries, which is great, just a curiosity of some unspecified sort. There are so many things to do and not enough time to do them all and still get enough sleep. I haven’t been watching TV for a few days. Well, not since my days off. Even if I follow my list and do all the things that I need to, well, maybe if I did that, I wouldn’t feel bad about watching TV.
“I keep thinking about,” is a good phrase to write. It means that I’ve been thinking. I’m always thinking, but thinking doesn’t mean as much to me as it once did. I’m curious if this would make me a better or a worse philosophy major. I was always in a state of ambivalence when I saw people that found their school work interesting but not particularly meaningful. If it wasn’t meaningful, why would I put any effort in it? If it doesn’t actually contribute the project that is being a human being, why give it more than a cursory glance? But they did their homework and didn’t struggle over every little bit on minutia at the question’s core and they handed in their papers and got good grades and worked as TAs and went on to grad school and I washed dishes and doubted the meaningfulness of everything and didn’t have enough money to buy more than crackers at the dollar store for lunch for a week. “I don’t think it’s worth it,” I would tell my younger self, “but I don’t know for sure. I haven’t died yet.” And after I’ve died, who knows? Holden’s creator is dead now. Holden doesn’t give a goddamn. Holden is a bag of bones. Holden is worth any number of old ladies.
posted by Spike at 5:36 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home