Are Aliens Stealing Your Time Too?
…like they do to George St. Pierre and me.
Eight hours of the Delhi summer heat, the sun, and the scalding airwaves...
Eight hours worth of scorching, and by the evening, Jimmy’s face begins to emanate smoldering vapors out of air surrounds.
You looks at your face in the mirror — and you better don’t look — but if you do, you realize it has taken an almighty pounding. Facial hair poke out of it like Savannah thorns and the eyes speak of defeat and satisfaction.
A worthy day.
A day without guilt.
And if you’re really lucky — a day filled with hope.
Come home and worry about upsetting a friendship. Call a friend and tell him you can’t come.
Go to sleep, but you can’t sleep since the body is torn at places you discover only mid-sleep (Bukowski wasn’t lying when he wrote Post Office); the entire forty-five minutes a slumber of physical discovery, a restless series of contortions.
Are you there?
Are you asleep?
How long have you been asleep (or awake)?
Have aliens been stealing your time like they do to George St-Pierre? He wasn’t lying either.
Look at the watch. And since you can’t dance no more in bed, you get up.
Water, coffee, buns, speakers, Morrison, Bukowski.
Escape for another hour or so, destroy yourself with creativity, and feel significance for the first time the whole day. First hour without worry is the last hour of the day. Enough to make Jimmy go one more time.
Jimmy’s constitution goes through periodic cycles: boredom to desire to hope to pain to hopelessness to boredom again.
Sometimes the wheels go so fast all of it happens within the space of a day.
To be is to be in conflict.
As long as you do not ‘be’.
Jimmy’s very intellectual mind is a pathetic child, powerless to jump out of the merry-go-round, creating more merry-go-rounds within merry-go-rounds.
