Premature Arrival of the Future

Originally Posted Wednesday, April 17, 2013

As I say over and over, I have been grumpy for awhile.  I went to dinner with Red last night.  She has been here for the past month or so living her gypsy life American style, but now she is returning to Europe.  She told me that I am not the same C.S. as I was when she left last time.  I am not as much fun.  I did not argue nor disagree with her.  It is an undeniable fact. 

There are many reasons I could articulate as to why this is true.  Mostly, I think, it is the premature arrival of the future.  Not the cosmic one, but my own.  I did not prepare for it.  I have been like the grasshopper fiddling away the summer while the squirrels were putting away nuts for the winter.  It was fun.  I didn't want to be a squirrel.  Hell. . . people were excited by the music I was playing. 

My body has been exhausted for awhile.  Not exhausted, exactly, but used up and broken in most places.  I've banged it around for sport pretty good.  Now, I think, I should have taken up gardening instead.  I love the lyrics in Father John Misty's "Nancy from Now On":

I can fend for myself/ With what looks I have left/ I'll put away a few/ And pretty soon I'll be breaking things like Howard Hughes 

I've suffered from the physical breakdown for a long time now and though it is never pleasant, it is something I've grown used to.  Recently, though, an emotional exhaustion has caught up with me that I've only experienced in spurts.  It seems to have lasted for a notable duration now, long enough to wonder about.  I think that I could shake it if I had time, enough of it and money enough, too, to get away.  Freedom, really, to wander and think and laugh, to do the things I want with what time that is left before my body breaks for the final time. 

But. . . there are bills to be paid and disasters to be counted on. . . and there is work.  The Factory.  I see no escape, but rather the opposite, a death sentence of the soul in the fading light of influence and power.  After a life of pretending, the thing I thought I had rebelled against owns me.  Now, like some cowboy movie hero, I must figure out what to do. 

And so I stay away from people, for what Red said is true.  I am not fun any more.  And it is worse than that.  I am irritable and aggressive.  I am best now with solitude and the company of the cat.  It is probably not the preferred way among nine out of ten doctors for treating such ailments, but what the hell do they know about a "real character"?  They'd probably recommend the McMurphy Lobotomy as the best solution. 

But this is between us.  Don't tell anybody else.  I'm working through it.  I'll figure it out.  We don't want to burden anybody else with my problems