November 25th, 2004


Simulacra Miseria

Or words to that effect. My command of Latin has almost evaporated. As is my patience with many contemporary forms of social exchange, namely this most fanglesome dating service. Verdammt! Encore...

It would appear through this means that the best I can aspire to is the exchange of words. The more recent contact, another occasion in which I am polishing pen to a fine lustre, doesn't even move beyond that point of writing. I'd often find myself thinking, less than positively I admit, that quite possibly the writing was about as good I get. By which I mean, quality aside, that I don't have much to offer other than the written word. I may be eloquent, but rarely socially to the same degree. A man of letters, perhaps, but not a man of hands, of face, of breath.

I pick up the banjo and finish writing an already suicidally-themed ballad entitled The Banks of the Bowery, one of the few specifically New York songs on the new album. I've put it on the iPod and will try and work out the harmonies and other frills in my head as I walk the Lea Valley. I'm certainly not jumping in!

...formulates tentative life plan...

1. Open Shop. IF spectacular success, goto 2. IF NOT goto 3.
2. Develop irresistible entrepreneurial allure. Cease being single. Raise family, die.
3. Sell house to cover costs of failed shop experiment. Abandon hopes of marriage, liquidate assets and donate to Church, enter religious service, sleep.

I think that plan needs a bit of fleshing out really. Sigh...