Blew the Wiring Out from Behind His Headlights and Now, No Matter What, Can't Find the Knob to Turn Off the Show

What are we going to do when the rest of our lives begin this Sunday afternoon as we drive away from Planet's college? Go back to work Monday: we've four years of college and five more years of mortgage to pay for, plus all the complicit baggage that comes with the life. We'll be able to save some money with Planet away - her room is the dormer of our Cape Cod, we won't need to heat and cool it, plus the other costs of keeping a child in the house; the grocery bill will halve.

We've talked of taking yoga or pilates if the club we belong to offers it cheap, workout as much as reasonable on our middle-aged joints, hike lots on the weekends (maybe join PATC and do some volunteer trail work), maybe get bikes for trail riding. We'll be driving between Kensington and North Zanesville as much as Planet wants us, no doubt often early, less later. Me read and write, Earthgirl paint. Volunteer with some animal rescues, get a dog if our new timetables show we can exercise it right. I'd like to play disc again if my schedule and good weather ever collaborate on a weekend. More dinners with friends.

I can't envision myself ever disengaging from the grid. I'm so hopelessly complicit I can't imagine anyone anywhere not voluntarily complicit somehow,  though I daydream, if not of resistance yet, of a more actively conscious acknowledging of when and how and to whom I'm complicit, and then renegotiating with myself as to that particular complicity's need, and then renegotiating with whomever I contract with for new terms or no terms. I don't need to watch West Brom versus Wigan on Comcast on Saturdays, etc. Learn to forgive myself for not giving up everything so I don't end up doing nothing.

Serendipitously (if not coincidentally, given the days) both Archive Fire and What the TeeVee Taught posted yesterday on things I've been thinking about. Go read.

Meanwhile, Daily Gaddis:

 - It's about time you breathed some life into it, I suppose, Valentine said, dropping the thing on a chair by his coat. - It's become quite a dismal affair, a frightened little group who spend all their time criticizing each other's attempts in terms of cosmic proportions, and the defend each other against the outside world. Even the fiction, the stories they write about each other, they don't know anyone else. A sort of diary of dead souls.

• The Principle of Magic.
• Rights and obligations.
• None of us were like this before, part one, part two.
• Obama's odd magic bus.
• Obamadick.
• Wall Street Journal says no to Bachmann.
• Perry's apology tour. 
• Flash mob robbery in Germantown.
• Options for Agi.
• Jonathan Franzen ruins the Mekons for you.
• Ghost Boy.
• Unsatisfied.
• Two live Replacements songs.

GREEN SEES THINGS IN WAVES

August Kleinzahler

Green first thing each day sees waves—
the chair, armoire, overhead fixtures, you name it,
waves—which, you might say, things really are,
but Green just lies there awhile breathing
long slow breaths, in and out, through his mouth
like he was maybe seasick, until in an hour or so
the waves simmer down and then the trails and colors
off of things, that all quiets down as well and Green
starts to think of washing up, breakfast even
with everything still moving around, colors, trails,
and sounds, from the street and plumbing next door,
vibrating—of course you might say that's what
sound really is, after all, vibrations—but Green,
he's not thinking physics at this stage, nuh-uh,
our boy's only trying to get himself out of bed,
get a grip, but sometimes, and this is the kicker,
another party, shall we say, is in the room
with Green, and Green knows this other party
and they do not get along, which understates it
quite a bit, quite a bit, and Green knows
that this other cat is an hallucination, right,
but these two have a routine that goes way back
and Green starts hollering, throwing stuff
until he's all shook up, whole day gone to hell,
bummer . . .

                 Anyhow, the docs are having a look,
see if they can't dream up a cocktail,
but seems our boy ate quite a pile of acid one time,
clinical, wow, enough juice for half a block—
go go go, little Greenie—blew the wiring out
from behind his headlights and now, no matter what,
can't find the knob to turn off the show.