Sunday morning, I leave the house, I check, it’s ten oh six. Random, numbers, to which we seek to assign significance (not in this case) or is it that we search for meaning? No definite destination in mind, but I’m thinking Kensington. I want to be around humans but a specific type of human that won’t annoy me. I probably shouldn’t go to Kensington, then. But it’s the same everywhere. It’s all contrived. Gawd I sound miserable.
It’s true, I’ve woken in a strange mood. Is it the long weekend, too much time alone? Is it the surprisingly thought-provoking film I saw last night? The very ironic company kept me for it? Is it just another curve in the never-ending, uncontrollable often inexplicable roller coaster of life; no reason for this mood? Hormones? This snow in April, for crying out loud? It is any or all or one or none of these things so just life and thus nothing to dwell on or to try to get to the bottom of?
The film was « While We’re Young. » As I said, every now and then Hollywood makes a movie I like. I loved it. Anything that makes you think. Even if the thoughts turn endlessly like a spiral and are akin to asking, « What is the meaning of life? » The cursed, the blessed human condition. The fact that this condition exists brings us round to that same question again.
The summers in Paris, for example. Diversion or fulfillment? Anyway the questions are exhausting me and the place is filling up and the snow is falling down and I think I’ll just go follow my big toes down the sidewalk.
So yes, there is some genius in me.