Or perhaps the sun’s jaded. It’s been glaring down at these same nine (ten? nine? what’s a planet anyway?) hunks of rock and balls of gas for how long now? I mean, how could the sun not lose its childlike sense of wonder after billions of years of nothing interesting happening? At first, I’m sure it was awesome. Planets forming! Explosions! Collisions! All kinds of spacy treachery! Fucking amazing! But then … ho hum. Everything settles into dull status quo, and the only drama comes from a taxonomy glitch. No wonder the sun can’t be bothered to behave the way the eleven year solar cycle says it should. Fuck that. There must be something better to do than sit here and bust off CMEs and shit.
But there really isn’t. The circle of life is just that — a circle. Let’s get zen for a second and say “dude, a circle, the awesome and beautiful cycle of everything, nothing every really ends, it just keeps going round and round like a record baby right round right round.” Um, no.
There’s nothing in this whole fucking universe more tragically boring than a circle.
I live in a circle.
I fucking suck at geometry.
There is some kind of nebulous something (masks? puppets? cabaret? ghosts?) attempting to congeal into story/poetry. Another project similar to A Walking Tour of Pale (which I need to get back to), but more … I don’t know. Maybe less whatever I thought that more was supposed to be. Whatever it is, I prefer to blame a fictional character. (At which Eliot reminds me that I made him up, so whatever comes out of his head comes out of mine.)
I’ve written very little the last two or three days. I’m purging the poisons.
On the plus side, I do have ideas, inspiration, etc. This is a vast improvement from where I was even a month ago.
Still, the sun spins in its place, the planets in theirs and play ring around the sun. Everything rotates and rotates. Step outside the circle and play.
(PS: I am sober.)