There’s nothing like a good dump to clear your mind. A good curse your pants because they’re too tight and you need butt clearance pronto press down on the seat hold your breath an entire supermarket is passing through the hole of a donut kind of dump.
I was going to open with a quote from Manhattan (saw a gorgeous 35mm print tonight at the Film Forum); the one in which Diane Keaton’s character summarizes the mental illness of the collegiate: “Real adolescent. You know, fashionable pessimism. I mean…I loved it while I was at Radcliffe, but I mean all right you outgrow it. You absolutely outgrow it…don’t you see? Don’t you guys see? That it is the dignifying of one’s own psychological and sexual hangups by attaching them to these grandiose philosophical issues? That’s what it is.”
Instead I took a dump and told you about it. It’s a little easier than a look in the mirror on the morning of a hangover, which is essentially what that quote is for me. It makes me realize that every one of my magniloquently constructed moments – the Glenn Close in Dangerous Liaisons-styled seductions, the Sylvia Plath metaphors, the Dostoyevsky-“identifying” – is adding frosting to a piece of bread. It doesn’t make it cake, it doesn’t make it sweet, it doesn’t even make it desirable – it just makes it bread with frosting on it. It’s a fucking farce and I don’t think I’ll be starring in it anymore if it’s all the same to you. My life is not important, it’s not impressive. It can, however, be a way to serve others. A reason for someone’s smile.
It seems like more things are finishing than starting. It means God’s at work.