The Passive State

The public domain is completely utterly forgiving, in most ways. One can pretend, can invent, fritter time away while klatsching over the newest Potter film, or their own personal woes. I often treat the blog as my boredom factor. When I’m bored, I write what I would normally be babbling to somebody in real life. In fact, the frequency of my posting often reflects my actual social schedule. I’m not that disciplined, you see. But, having a mom that lets you do everything sometimes turns you into a junkie. (The mom in this case being the internet... and the drug being the internet... oh god, I confused myself!) Today, nothing happened. I spent the whole day writing, and watching a very bad soft porn film. I was supposed to work, and I did work, but somehow it doesn’t seem like work. I never realized I’d be the type of person who could be comforted by a regular schedule. Left to my own devices, I can only stare wistfully at my Sloterdijk while frittering the whole day making my iTunes playlist, and thinking about random stuff. Today’s random stuff was about violence and passivity. The difference between being stuffed into a Metro at an ungodly hour because you know that’s what gives you your Estelle Yomeda shoes, and the Virgin Mary. Or a schoolboy hitting you on the head to steal your cellphone, and some guy sitting in his bed looking at you with a giant erection. It keeps me up at night. That and the idea of oldness. Old people are somehow completely in a passive state. The more they try to assert themselves, the more passive they seem. Sometimes, they use their last weapon of resort, patheticness, as a weapon. But that just doesn’t seem to work. Old people really have the short end of the stick. Unless they’re rich. In which case, they could probably stuff themselves with enough young people and drugs to forget how close to death they really are. Sometimes I just imagine myself as a sixty-year old woman, comfortable in her pajamas, while outside the snow falls. And there is a comfort in that passiveness. When I was twelve I imagined I would be a fantastic twin-set suburban success by thirty. Now that I’m thirty-one I imagine I’ll be a fantastic pearl-wearing old cronie hanging out in her urban tent, chock full of stories, sipping hot chocolate. So you see, it’s good to dream because then you can remember all the stories you could have had, and sometimes those stories are more real and useful than any real ones. Most people don’t read beyond the fourth paragraph. I understand and congratulate all you six paragraph readers. Not much further to go now. What am I really trying to say? A lot of things but really, nothing. The way you can be so happy being with people, then so happy being alone. That sometimes when you’re alone, you want someone, and the moment they’re there, you wish you only had them on the phone. I don’t like looking at blood, and when somebody tells me they are afraid of flying, I say so what? In fact, so what? Exactly! Now you should go do something productive in your day, like writing a memo, or something. Work work work… that’s what Andy always said. But, even he’s dead. Oh well… I’ll go out for drink in a couple of hours, when social hour hits. Just like everyone.