M.O.D. are you out there? I can’t see your face…

All manner of foul and unseemly parasites breed in stagnant waters.

So it is with men.

Already, the fears and passions that dominated my existence seem to dim. They seem relics, tarnished bronze antiquities from another age. And yet it was not so long ago. Not so long ago at all.

Suffering is the greatest of all motivators. Nothing drives a human to seek food like hunger. Nothing drives a human to seek love like loneliness. Nothing drives a human to excel like failure.

Thus I fear… not contentment. Contentment connotes bliss. Idleness perhaps? Whatever the disease, Atrophy and Weakness are its symptoms.

I don’t know.

In the absence of meaningful experience, man affords great meaning to trivialities. Suddenly, Novelty becomes a high virtue. Inconsequential and fleeting events are hailed as great adventures. The slightest kindness makes one a saint; the slightest vice makes one a devil.

Drifting along the surface of that pristine, smooth river, we shake like brittle fallen leaves at the slightest breeze or current.

Walk into any office in the world, and know I speak truth.

A man sits down to a flavorless chicken dinner his plump wife has prepared, as she does every Thursday. She tells her husband of her minor mishaps at the grocery store. She exclaims at the price of bananas.

He tells her animatedly of his mistreatment at the hands of the new marketing director. He shakes his head in disgust at the gall of this latest corporate villain. He complains.

They eat the rest of their dinner in silence. And watch TV. And go to bed.

Behold, the American splendor.

I feel it creep into my bones while I ride the shuddering bus. I feel it peel at my skin while I pay my bills. I smell it. I hate.

Strange days, friends, strange days indeed.

—————

My nights have been consumed lately. I’ve burned through an unbelievable amount of comic books this last week, a dark and dirty pleasure I haven’t known in far too long. I don’t know that I’d really read a comic since I hit double digits in age. Every last book of The Invisibles, every issue of Y The Last Man I could get my hands on, Moore and Lloyd’s V for Vendetta… all these things my more astute nerd friends have been nagging me to read for eons.

I listen to the Kruder and Dorfmeister station on pandora.com (thx ataque).

I think of large and complex things. I ponder why older generations are so unable to identify with my era’s music. I consider writing a treatise on the subject. It would be called Despair and Angst and the Musical Generation Gap, or, Why Mom Hates Pearl Jam.

I make a list of all the people I should write to.

I don’t write to them.

I work. I work out.

I cook and clean. I read the news, and hate the government.

I abide.

—————

Something’s not right.

I’ll come back later.

-T.

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One Response to “M.O.D. are you out there? I can’t see your face…”

  1. anonymous Says:

    pandora is the shit. fucking bon jovi. is he from texas? cause I can’t think of a single good thing that’s come out of texas, henceforth (by layman’s logic) he must be from texas… -attack

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