Saturday, July 21, 2007



More self exile. I had some company at least to keep me grounded. Oh misery, the symptom of the lonely and the needy. No news today, just bad movies, football, and sex. Not such a bad way to spend a Sunday. Brazil, that power house from the days where the world of football was hidden from me like the ancient volcanoes out there in the clouds, defeated Argentina 4-0 in the Copa America finals.

I may be on the verge of a very dire emergency. My cigarette stash is down to one. My sensibilities don’t suggest any trip to the disco, but the night is still young.

These are dangerous times, with only myself for company, with time to dwell on the past, think on the future, lament, fantasize, distort my sober reality just a little more. Warning lights should be going off all around. I’ve hit the road before. It won’t be the last time.

I took a BMW 523, 1997 model sedan for a test drive the other day. The beast got into me. It’s like driving a couch, a couch with six cylinders, and fuel injection. I don’t claim to know much about cars, but I know what I like. What I didn’t expect was the little feeling that crept in later when I considered the consequences. Imagine a busted broke, illegal, half crazy Canadian kid, driving around this country with a surf board sticking out the side window in a luxury sedan. It might be the end of me. The word that came to mind was conspicuous. I have never been comfortable with that word. What a comfortable ride. These are dangerous times.

Here I am, late into a Sunday evening, thinking about the effects of buying an overpriced, gas guzzling, wood paneled wildebeest of an automobile, and yet a few minutes before I sat down to write this I was thinking about packing it in and heading home. As if I’ve never let misery creep in with the mist before, like the pits of self pity are foreign to me. As if hunting for the coyote was a new theme in my life.

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