--Okkervil River
I am thinking of the word 'residue'. It has been with me, stuck with me, unmovable from me, since half-way through the overly-dramatic Les Mis. So much of that story is a part of me, a determined stain. I remember, think thoughts of Paris. I read it there, some of it, or Burgundy, where I ended up finishing the whole thing. I remember the priest, dead now, who sent us there. I remember the insolence and petulance with which I insulted him when I returned. I remember the shame of hiding, not finding all that there was there. A tiny village. A chateau of some sorts. I took a run, was immersed in so many solitudes and obsessions.
I biked up a San Francisco hill to an Episcopalian Church Wednesday night for the residue there. A shadow of a shadow. It was dark and quiet. A candle-lit cross. I made a crude joke to Ben about it. I feel dim. The single voice of the chants. Dull. I end my days consumed. I find no time to live. I flit out barely my existence. I am no voice, not even the single determined voice. I am a whisper in the darkness. Lost in the flickering shadows.
I do not know if I am returning or leaving a final farewell. My head is fuzzy, my thoughts unclear. My writing has atrophied, clearly. I am crass and cheap. Still adolescent in my thoughts and words. I have wasted so much. Felt so little, loved so poorly.
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