XLIV LOSS

I think or almost know that we all desire to be alone more often. I think it's true really because when else are we at ease? sometimes I think its hard to become alone, hard to withdraw from society, both the strangers and those we know, but on doing so there are so many rewards. It's hard to write because it forces a thread to be borne out all the way. the wonderfully frayed blossoms of thought that take place in a passive mind all wither away. there is just one long thought that you can see as a wake behind the sentence being typed out. it's hard not to go back and read what you have written. but then, really i haven't said anything. i'd like to tell you about my dream. and i'd like to tell you what i think about the first few pages of the article that i began reading that inspired me to sit down and begin writing this. should i be afraid to be discovered? there is a whole future of work and career ahead of me. of sitting down with people and needing them to take me seriously enough to pay me money for a service. and certainly part of seriousness is mystery. part of it is letting the mystery of your degree and what goes on in a school stand in for the individual mystery of what goes on in any one of our heads. i think we must all muddle through school in our own little way. but upon completion we all share that same receipt. and we all forget our individual muddling and look back and say, look at what i share with who i share it with. that must be me.

what does lebron mean to me? is he the future man. the uber mensch and zarathustra? what does that stupid book mean to me? i remember eating a big peice of carrot cake and reading that book on a sunny day alone in a cafe while in college. i felt very grown up and alone in that moment. not lonely. i hardly ever remember being lonely in a moment. i remember eras of my life that were lonely. but it's hard to pinpoint one single moment with that feeling. maybe some feelings only reveal themselves in accumulation.

here is a vein of thought that has been coming into my mind with some regularity. i don't know what it means but i think its connected to the heartbeat of my interest in sports. i mean 'vein' in the sense of mining for gold, not in the physical sense of a vein in my body. but the heartbeat thing. look, i don't know. i am trying to choose my words carefully and not complicate things more than they need to be. there must always be a best word for what you are trying to describe. enough dicking around, here goes;
lebron is a national celebrity, a worldwide celebrity. he belongs to everybody. he can go from cleveland to miami but i dont know if he can go back home. and russell is that other celebrity. he is my waking celebrity, the celebrity of home. russell represents me to the rest of the world. if lebron represents me at all it is a very generic part of me. my americanness, my superiority maybe? i saw russ in the airport and shook. in my dream i saw the back of lebrons head. i saw him go into a futuristic tanning booth.

i guess its better to fix your vacuum cleaner than follow some boring line of thought about sports celebrities.  but i really need to note how real the seahawks are to me. the truth of my feelings. the mystery of their depths. the rug that i sit on while i write is much cleaner now.

in the corner of this page there is a field that says 'complain to google'. that must be why that company is worth so much money. this little bullshit blog is saving me a fortune in therapist fees. and maybe its the thrill of being discovered that makes me write. it does take some sort of spark or spur to write. i mean, we could all write a thousand pages a day, that's how many thoughts race through our mind on one level of consciousness or another. if we just tapped into that unending brook of thought and our fingers could move fast enough and we had enough different pages open. yes i think we could record it all, all day and all night, all the thoughts. and there would be some gems among the muck.

i think i want to hide myself at work. i must drive people away at work. i want to be a robot at work. i don't want to be known there. or perhaps, i don't want to be known as that. perhaps in my hubris i think i must be what i am doing. that i must disassociate from what i think i must do. i have less success that way. i know myself worse. maybe its okay if you are my boss and you are reading this right now. though i would be shocked. in the world of work there is always so much to read. and most of it is just as poorly written as this, but at least its about money. i dont really know what this is about. its like playing my guitar kind of. but more personal. or maybe just more developed.

seahawks, mariners, seahawks, mariners, seahawks, mariners, seahawks, mariners, seahawks, mariners, seahawks. i guess that's how i'll bide my time. how i'll demarcate how i feel when i look up and see buds on the trees. when i think about how long the summer is going to be. when i think about which time is real, when the trees have leaves or when they have not. which season is the one where life happens and which one is the one where we digest and recuperate. when is it okay to watch tv while the sun shines.

here is the quote that makes me feel the best about the terrible feeling of watching us, the seahawks us, lose the superbowl XLIV;

It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

i saw it in a cadillac add on the back of the new yorker magazine.