Wednesday, October 12, 2005

De-Generation X

I don't know if one can resign the definition of an era/generation. Midnight reaches in through my open windows, cannot claim what has already been volunteered, and retreats to protect that which personifies everything solitary and endless between sunset and sunrise.

During the waking hours, most hold respectable jobs, I either hold myself, toy with my keyboard, or read in the bathroom holding my arms up as dogs come and go looking for attention. Lately, my bathroom solidarity has been polluted with the ghosts of other's dark lives. From the dark, a hero emerges. A hero within us all, a hero we are all incapable of being because we are too alone to feel alone.

Sylvia Plath, Augusten Burroughs, J.D. Salinger, and now Denis Johnson all Calvin Klein -black icons. Pyscho-suicidal 3rd person perspectives into their own demons and 6 degrees of seperation from each of us; roses bloom best in potted shit - the odor of the unnecessary glorifies the aroma of beautiful life in a halo of perspective.

Why do novels like the Da Vinci Code and Harry Potter sell better than this sewer culture? The angels and demons can be seen, not just felt. The only villain in the underground sleeps alone. In the hero's bed.

Fine lines: love & hate, friends & enemies, God & Satan. The bestsellers are defined by how thick the gray line is between good and evil. Literature is the absence of that gray line. It is the white space between inkpen letters. The conflict: the void seperating each line of text...accumulated throughout the entire book. You explain the empty pages after the conclusion and epilogue. Life goes on.

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