Fear and Loathe This

Sometimes I wonder if all a writer ever really manages to construct with all his poesy is the vague remembrance, the feeling of authenticity. For example, tonight I'm sitting in a warm appartment in NYC waiting for my girl to get out of rehearsal, with a White Russian in my gut and Johnny Depp and Benicio del Toro's performances in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas sitting in my DVD player, already watched and waiting to be taken out and filed next to Barry Lyndon and The Seven Samurai. It's a rainy, blustery kind of New York evening that mocks man's faith in his protective invention, the umbrella. I have a stew pot of beef n' vegetable on the stove needing to be cleaned out, the first Joy Division album on the stereo; it's 9:56, and I'm wearing pajamas. Hit it.




All of which is a mood, not a reality. Somewhere in this same city there's a gaggle of acting students perfecting their craft. Somewhere in this same city someone is throwing up into a toilet, vowing that this will be the last time. Somewhere someone is meeting the love of their life. Somewhere someone is finishing a book that they've always meant to read. Somewhere some kids are being put to bed, secure in the knowledge that breakfast will be served hot and fresh tommorrow, and that school will pretty much the same as it was today. Somewhere someone is having a grand, memorable time listening to the downest, baddest music that can be found today, and somewhere else someone is writing the downest, baddest music that will be found tommorrow.


And sure, the opposite of all those things is happening, too. But who's gonna tell me which one of them is "real," and which is "false," and make me believe it?