is it spring fever bringing on this rash act? two housemates moving out. the whole constellation changes. the landlord brings a couple from the alternative community, a masseuse and a yogi instructer. they've known each other six months. i know they'll soon be yelling and throwing pie tins. every couple goes though it. not only that, they've lots of friends. i suspect the living room will fill up with clouds of ganja.
of course, he may not rent to them, the two of us left protesting. however, it's unlikely two more hermits will be found. alas, those types i like living with, being one myself. all of us go out to socialize, at home quiet and secluded as mice avoiding a cat.
true, summer's a coming. the lookout, house-sitting. at the moment it seems it will last forever. however, i need a plan. argentina? that's a thought. i did a report in the sixth grade on south america and i've never made it beyond costa rica. am i ready for adventure, not having a purpose? where could i meet lovely women and do the tango, clicking pictures the whole while?
it's a risk. what if it doesn't work out, like the time i gave up a scholarship to stanford in directing, returned to new york to find the director who'd promised me a job had inherited money and skipped the country? damn, that was the kind of winter that tries men's souls. i ended up in london at xmas, watching the gas-meter wheel go round. i didn't travel for another twenty years.
okay, okay, time has passed, a significant birthday coming up. if i don't take the leap of faith and stupidity, when will i? as my therapist friend says, almost all people wait too long to kill themselves, too bed-ridden to do it in the end.
trouble is, i'm not sure i believe in my old myth of myself, ie. poet destined to become posthumously famous, his plays performed to universal acclaim. that was the purpose of the peregrinations: experience finally set down in deathless dialogue, sonnets that made even street-people weep.
yet i believe we have to keep renewing ourselves, until death do us part from this our well-seasoned body.
photos from 'why torture is wrong, and the people who love them.'
ironically, people move to this town to get away from the cruel world. can theater overcome this oversight? check it out,
