'
The sermon for Tuesday, Jun. 25, 2002 is: sitting round awaiting the telephone to ring 10:01 p.m. My gosh, my gosh, what is this that I'm feeling? I'm... wait a minute, let me double check. My gosh. I'm happy. I was practising guitar fruitlessly, aimlessly, just now; and I decided, hmmm, maybe if I should listen to some Django Reinhardt. So I put in a Django Reinhardt CD and plunked away at the guitar before giving up. Life suddenly became so much less intolerable since I've given up. I look outside and see the full moon sitting stolidly and self-contentedly in a shelf of sky, yellow-faced as if it's eaten a boxful of sour candy; and then Stephane Grapelli's violin began to sing along with Django Reinhardt's gipsy guitar, and-- well, Diary, I was happy. I am happy (though I've settled down somewhat since I've decided to try to describe it -- isn't it interesting how trying to put something into words diminishes its overwhelming reality?) and as long as there's moonlight and guitars I suppose this world isn't such a terrible place after all, even if I do have to experience it alone. Anyway. I'm waiting for Young to call me. He only calls me when he's drunk and suicidal, he calls me because I quite happily agree to his suicide pacts, no matter how outlandish they may be. Strangely he often gets suicidal when he's drunk. Anyway. Right now I wish I was living in Paris in 1923, sleeping in pissoirs and garrets and strange American ladies' salons, writing cryptic verse that would win me posthumous fame in 1924. I can wish that since it's an impossible wish to grant, and these days the only things I can allow myself comfortably to really really want are these impossible things, like a different life in a different world, like a different life, a different world.
 
|
