Apathy

My own mind is more interesting to me than the entire country.

Why should I feel guilty that I don’t light dollar bills up with the poor, huddled masses to illuminate the white house on a dark D.C. night?

My internal narrative is incessant and offers me no exit into the socially constructed reality
I know what is real to me and the foreman of that reality doesn’t give a fuck about anything else… Not Iraq, not inflated rats in front of my school, not Darfur, not nothing.

But then, alas, bile corrodes my soft pink throat and I know how ugly I am- I am guilty and the blood is on my hands—I am xenophobic, lazy, and too disinterested to pursue knowledge let alone materialize action.

I legitimize my games because the sun also rises, and I tell myself that I am James Joyce’s great nephew and silence, exile, and cunning will lead me through.

I’m confused now- because I do care- I care so god damn much and all I want is for things to be right, and to actualize the arsenal for change
But I am not ready- I know not even myself and my imagination is not fully developed to fictionalize a better world, one with hope, one that is different than the one in which I live.

We all want to be revolutionary, but…

This honesty is not revolutionary.
Smoking weed is not revolutionary.
Not cutting your hair is not revolutionary.
Over exposed film and incoherent plot lines not kept afloat by half-assed symbolism is not revolutionary.
Rage against the machine is revolutionary, but not when its coming through your headphones.
Cranking butts, and rubbing bleary eyes between sips of cold coffee is not revolutionary.
Having the outline of Africa on your Timberland boots is not revolutionary
The individual is not revolutionary
Hobart and William Smith Colleges is not revolutionary
A Hammer and Sickle novelty tee shirt is not revolutionary
A Che Guevera Trucker hat is not revolutionary
Cramming Marx and Engles for an exam is not revolutionary
Saying you’re a political liberal and fiscal conservative is not revolutionary
Wearing a bright red pin on your satchel book bag that reads “is it fascism yet?” is not revolutionary

These are empty shells of a revolution- the molting of a snake after he and his essence has moved forth apart. The only thing revolutionary in this day and age at Princeton Review’s 19th most politically apathetic school is ideas. As these seeds in my head grow, I want to plant them in the television and on the big screen and in a book and in a weekly column and in the soul of someone else who knows more than me.

White boy pain spilled out on the floor tonight because everyday life is getting easier and it’s making me uncomfortable. Life is good, I say and smile, because it really is and I am guilty but can’t stop smiling, and my own mind is still so much more important
and I am still an asshole
and Tuesday morning’s seat race is still a priority
and I will still never accomplish anything,
and I will still make money
and I will still drink rum at night and coffee in the morning
and life will still be good.

If however, my pugnacity shall arise from its paralysis, life will not be good, and my coffee will not be from starbucks, but my mind and body will have given back and the circle will be complete.
And my kids will respect me
and my wife will be tired but kiss me more deeply
and my head will ache but I will sleep more soundly.
and life will be good

I can’t wait to say thank you to the world for giving me this time to think, to develop my own personal narrative, to imagine what the world could be before I jump in and try and turn it into what it should be.

But for now, I am twenty years old and very happy to be confused. I wouldn’t worry about it though.

You may find yourself in a beautiful house...

...with a beautiful wife. You may ask yourself- how did I get here?

I'm driving from greenwich to newport in someone else's father's car. I am drinking rum at an expensive private beach. I act like I'm used to it, but I know I don't fit in- I can't fit in, it is not organic. But alas, I am there. These are my friends. This is not me. This is me. This is life, and to this point this is how the world has turned and this is where I am. Caught with one foot off the merry go round- whipped around weightlessly/feet planted firmly to the ground. My nose is broken after being smashed by a series of opening and closing books; and when I look up nothing makes sense because they're not words; it's life and people and water and sand and alcohol and the words mean nothing. I remember the words and sip slowly because I want it to taste good/ And it does taste good so I breathe deep and close my eyes knowing that there are more books to read. I promise myself these bullshit lies will end and I'll fucking do it, just do it- I swear I will. But god damn that chair is comfortable and those little kids are adorable in their little J Crew madras bathing suits/ and their mothers are fucking gorgeous because they don't work, but rather look good. At least I know I'm in the drivers seat/ but when you're drunk and have been sunning all day, you typically ride shotgun,..-I typically oblige.


You may ask yourself where does that highway lead to. You may ask yourself, "am I right, am I wrong?" You may say to yourself- "My God! What have I done?!"

I am the epitome of a lazy generation with too much of their parents money and subsequent low expectations. White= Advantaged. Money= Priveleged. Male= Never recieve prejudice. These blessings are daggers hanging from strings on the ornate ceiling above the throne of the Greek King I learned about in latin during my liberal arts education which is important to supposed to know. If only I were a poor mexican day laborer picking grapes in salinas, my ideas would mean something- because they would be all I have. But my American dream is one not yet constructed, for Horatio Alger and my father already lived out the one we all know.

Same as it ever was