Friday, February 08, 2008


I am existential crisis. I sit in a leather chair at a bookstore and talk with my mother. I want to make sure she is sober. I want to make sure she is ok. I just talk about myself instead. I tell her what I'm thinking, almost. SO i say goodbye and I walk down the street. The sun is down. It is cold. Cars drive past and their headlights bloom. It might be tears. It might be my eyes quiting on me. Strangers and their children look at me. They know. They can see it. I got rid of most of my stuff. I left some of it in the care of others. I took plains and buses to get 2,011 miles away, the long way. And what do I do? I still ask if you would like a PRESIDENTE margarita. I don't play guitar. I play it less, which I didn't think was possible. I don't write. I barely even think. Except for tonight. This light won't change. I don't change either. I have to cross the street. I have to make money. I have to pay rent. I have to be an adult. I am existential crisis. I can't change my mind. I can't give up. I cant retreat. I can't deem the whole experiment a failure. I can't try a different trajectory. I can't try a different location. I can second guess. And I do. And I will, no matter what happens. I'm standing on a corner waiting for a light to change, but I'm also riding in a car in the dark of the desert with a song playing, and I'm sitting in the back of a van on a nameless highway, and I'm looking out the window of an suv at some homes I'll never own and wondering why people kill and thinking I could never feel that way. Till I do. I am existential crisis. It shows on my face. My tables and coworkers think I'm tired. They ask if I'm sad. They ask if I'm drunk. They ask if I'm hungover. And I am. But not the way they get hung over. I forget to ask people how they want there meat cooked. Instead I standing on a balcony in the hills or lying naked in a car or screaming with all my heart or being screamed at. 365 days ago. I am a year older, a year of difference. But it feels like I just read a book about it. I get an extra day this year. I'll fuck it up like the rest. Not the rest of the world, but the rest of my days. I am existential crisis.


Anonymous said...

My husband now quite likes to follow along with this blog on a Saturday morning, and he has come to believe that you should join the Army.

*dodges stones thrown by Anthony and other readers*

Unfortunately he's always right about this shit.

ImPerceptible said...

As far as I can tell you work, get drunk, listen to music, and ride trains. I don’t have a problem with that if that’s what you want for your life. You’re better than that though.

Why aren’t you playing your guitar? Why aren’t you writing? Why aren’t you taking music classes? Why haven’t you found social or political groups that interest you? You are in Chicago. Make the most of it!

I’m both sad and angry that you aren’t taking advantage of everything that is right at your fingertips. You can spend your time soaking in a pool of vomit and whiskey or you can do something worthwhile. It’s your choice.

Lord knows I have lived long enough to see wonderful minds destroyed by too much of a good thing and seen the piles of broken hearts left in the wake of a good soul turned bitter and destructive. I wish better for you. But my wishes mean nothing. The choice is yours so stop stalling and make some. Just please don’t join the army.

Anonymous said...

Thing is, you need a really big change.

Taking a walk on the wild side depends on where you usually walk, right? You say that a lot of things haven't really changed for you in Chicago, and that's true.

I know the army seems like an out there suggestion for you, but in our day to day lives we're influenced more by our likes than our politics. The main things you like are camaraderie and a sense of something 'happening' - both of which you would get you-know-where. Right now you get them from drinking, which is an illusion.

Sometimes our self-concept helps us but sometimes it just holds us back.

And if you are tragically killed ImPerceptible will come to your funeral, looking eternally pained and yet ravishing. It will kick ass.

ImPerceptible said...

My breasts would be honored to make an appearance at your funeral. Then I'd get A. drunk and we'd sing that Meatloaf song as they lowered you into the ground. Probably follow that with a drunken orgy or something.

Don't join the army. That would be more fun if you were still alive. :)

Anonymous said...

Wait, we're all naked now?

Whoa, this post turned out really well for Anthony!

Maybe he should work the existential crisis/wounded puppy thing more often!