The Undead

Quarter of nine.

I think I’ll make a run to Bi Mart this afternoon. The weather is cloudy but they’re not saying rain today. Also today I could play my bass and read some Goethe, or maybe Hugo. I hope I can get some of that potato salad this morning. Two Snapples and a can of something to eat.

I understand that Michelle’s husband received quite an eye injury. He came home from the hospital, but she still didn’t come to work this morning. My shopping went as planned, so it was a little boring. The customer in line ahead of me bought four or five energy drinks and a dried beef snack. He looked somewhat shaky, as if he was detoxing from the night before. There was a length of chain hanging out of his trouser leg pocket. In general today I get a sense of vapidity and dullness from everything around me. I noticed this at Bi Mart last week as well. People give off a loveless vibe, almost an air of despair and futility. I think what’s really missing from our lives is romantic love and passion, this thing called desire. The consequence of repression is sterility, this feeling of a kind of living death. It is hamster wheel existence with no end in sight. But the wonderful thing about music is how it communicates the perfumes of erotic love in an immaculate way. Without this love, life is barren and burdensome. It’s the life of the undead, people with stolen souls sleepwalking from place to place.

Quarter after ten. There’s a need for a revival of James Joyce and D.H. Lawrence; also Katherine Mansfield. The plague of one hundred years ago was tuberculosis. Mansfield was very ill with this when she wrote her desperate stories of passion unfulfilled and incomplete. We ought to be learning a lesson from what these writers suffered and not repeating their mistakes. It’s the least we can do to pay them due homage. 

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