Sometimes I don’t want to write. I don’t want to read. I don’t want to watch television or movies. I just want to converse. I want to talk about things on my mind, things on another person’s mind. But the effing television seems to have absorbed every little bit of interest and communication that’s available, leaving nothing left for conversation.
I want to be sitting in a little motel in the outskirts of Albuquerque, a little place with glass block windows and a glass block shower enclosure, a motor court from the 1950s. There’s no television there, no way to assign more value to artificial conversations between strangers than conversations about life with people who matter.
There are days that make me wish for things that never were, things I wish defined me and who I was. This is one of them, I suppose. Goddamn. There’s more pain than there should be, there’s no doubt about that.
If I could change the world, and I could if I had enough commitment and energy, I’d make television illegal. I’d force people to sit together during dinner. I’d demand conversations about uncomfortable topics. I’d LEARN about people and they’d learn about me.
But I can’t change the world. I can’t even change myself. I am living on the edge of a wish that should just slip away, I guess. What the hell is it with me at the moment? I think I need to slap myself in the face and eat a lemon to get right with the world.