no love lost (rufus_mckain) wrote,
no love lost
rufus_mckain

Well, the first semester of my senior year is over, along with my relationship with Julianne, who's going to London for the next six months. Not officially over, in the sense that we had a clear-cut breakup, but in the realistic sense that I'll be graduating before we're in the same country again. Unless I visit her, which I'm going to try to do. Mostly, I'm pushing myself to pessimism, to an over-critical state, to boredom and forceful loneliness.
I've been reading Kenzaburo Oe, I think his latest novel, Somersault, and it is so bad it hurts. I'm hoping it's the translation, but everything is explained too far, all sides and thoughts given. It's like reading Henry James but focused on false messiahs and mid-life homosexuality. This great Postwar author, who wrote "The Catch," one of the top five short stories I've read, is presenting clunky end-time philosophy. It feels like he's just grown old, thinking six times for each action.
Still, it has made me want to write. A story of sex, a dislocated boy, nine-tenths memoir, one-tenth lyricism. And poetry, even. Here is something I wrote to Julianne. It is bad, but it got me writing.

There were days
in the small white car,
but there were mostly nights

where they drove through quiet
landscapes, the heat
too high and the headlights

mute as watercolors,
when she would smoke
and look not only forward

and out into the pale dark,
but found his eyes for blind
moments in hush and still and coast.

I'm kind of pissed that I still can't think of a better word than coast, which has too many water connotations. Also, why am I so damn sad all the time?
I got up at four am last night and went jogging around five. The cold stung everywhere. That is about all that's happened since I've been home. Someone give me a call and let's get drunk.
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