I long to screw up a snooty society party.

I forget where I snagged this photo. All I can say is that there is something about it that makes me depressed.

I began College in 1987. I was ready academically, but emotionally I was a wreck. My father died that year. The woman I was dating (who was ten years older than me) broke up with me the day before my first class. I felt (quoting the great Richard Brautigan here) "like a sewing machine that's just finished sewing a turd to a garbage can lid.”
The College's library had a copy of the book pictured above. I spent a lot of time in the library back then. More specifically, I spent time in the libraries smoking room. It's hard to imagine one could lite up a butt in a room in close proximity to microfilms and rare research texts, but it was the case back then...
I spent much of the time with that book, a book that contained critical studies of Leonard Cohen's novels and poems, and a collection of English dirty limericks that dated back to the Victorian era.
Each one helped me out of a depression so thick and deep that I could actually cut slices of it and serve it as a party snack.
Depression (when served hot) tastes like French pastries.
I miss spending hours in libraries and smoking cigarettes.
Now - in 2012 - this is the sort of thing that washes the blues away
No comments:
Post a Comment