I'm a faineant mess; I've become a real heap of recycled parts.
I've locked myself into my room of a Korean boarding house in New Jersey, planning on staying here temporarily until I move back into New York. I haven't budged. My suitcases are split open and my belongings sprawled out like carcasses from the massacre of once active life. I haven't tried to reverse my jet lag so I'm basically nocturnal. I smoke cigarettes in the bathroom then cover the scent with air freshener, as if something could actually occur from this calumny of a crime. Going back to the gourmet coffee shop in the Lower East Side that I used to frequent or the hookah place in the Upper East that I liked going to only offsets miniature yet cosmologically grand identity crises. I went to a billiard hall in this small Korean town of Jersey and I nearly fainted from the overstimulation: the Korean popular tunes humming stereophonically through tacitly placed speakerphones, the delicately imported devices and miscellaneous items to provide illusion of being somewhere else, and the misappropriated conversations between the Korean patrons that always dwell on their memories of the motherland in a way that chimes with a most wicked planar incongruence.
I want lacerate, no, decimate, wait... slash, cut, sever, saw, expunge, and fucking jjalyuh off these superficial associations that I maintain with myself and replace them with something meaningful. I'm quickly losing momentum and my wheels threaten to derail. I don't know. I don't know. I'm beginning to be able to speak faster than I can think, and I know when that happens, I'm just purely confused in my situation. I'm circumstantially tied up in a noose and situationally strapped into the electric chair. This place is insidiously turning me inside and out, but for some sick reason I like it because it forces me to stay away from everything and everyone and ruminate on questions that might actually mean something. Someone came up to me the other day and asked me what's so great about Karl Marx. I told him that one of the great things about Marx is that he gave a name to universal suffering so that we don't need to talk about it like it was some alien host that we're waiting to go away, but something that we've inherently and irrevocably become.
I feel like the German friend that Camus wrote to when he called France the nation of heroes. I'm a hypocrite on a laundry line hung out to dry in the pouring rain. I've been sitting around, writing on random scraps of paper all these pointless thoughts I'm entertaining while juggling, with some sanity, the reading of CS Lewis' non-Narnia texts that I found somewhat randomly on the shelf, collecting dust like some abandoned decoration that enjoyed maybe about two days of appreciation before it receded into the greyness of the everyday.
