l i f e
vapidus
This was supposed to be a piece on the boredom that can overcome our lives, but I should've known better. Life to be sure is never really boring, but we may grow tired of the repetition it lends us. I was reminded of this on my way home tonight and it stuck with me the whole 70 miles, up the stairs, and into my favorite chair. There, I sat quietly thinking.
You see, another famous rock star has gone and hung himself. At first I was going to come home, put on some old INXS and spin one for old times sake. I was going to give the dead star one last thorough listening to, applaud him for his lyrics, his voice, the memories he provided me in certain moments of my adolesence. Then I came to my senses. Then I said to myself, "Fuck that..."
It's been done before. Old hat. I'm tired of lamenting these dead stars, like they ever really meant anything to me anyway. Right? Who gives a shit if they all want to swing by ropes, I mean there's a damn good chance I could've been listening to someone else all these years, but no, it had to be them. The dead ones.
Has to be the dead ones who get played over and over only after they choose their own way out. I mean half the memories and songs and times would long be laid to rest but for some angst in some broken career that called them back to the surface for me to remember once more. Except now instead of being beautiful and open ended these memories are revisited one more time to be closed in violence.
May be that's why we play them to remember. Really we play them to forget what they've done. I'm not doing either. Matter of fact several INXS records just became frisbees. But now I've still reacted. Half a world away and over ten years...bam! Reaction. In a way I feel violated, pushed upon and invaded. I feel auscultated. Knock, knock...how are you in there old heart, remember me. Remember me. Remember me, damn it!
Well now I don't have much of a choice, do I?
goodnight 11.24.97
