Wednesday, February 13, 2013

An Official Red-Ryder

I want a new camera. Well, the camera is not exactly new, but it would be new to me. I probably won't buy it, but I enjoy wanting to. That is something, to want.

I want to have steak for breakfast, too. And eggs. 

And a glass of red wine, a cabernet. I have moved on from pinot's, for now.

Instead, I am pouring coffee into an empty stomach, writing this nonsense to you.

I should try to pick a subject before writing, not during.

Rachel just asked me if I wanted a steak for dinner tonight. Funny, that.

I responded before thinking about it. I should have told her I want " Official Red-Ryder Carbon-Action Two-Hundred Shot Range Model Air Rifle with a compass in the stock.

Or, the camera... I could have tricked her. 

She's been reading this site again though, so who knows. We've been struggling lately and perhaps for Valentine's day tomorrow she will realize the error of her wicked ways and buy me the camera (with the 35mm f1.4 lens).

Or, perhaps nothing would make her happier than to see me be happy. I should buy it for us

Then I could take pictures of her and Rhys for Valentine's day. We wouldn't be able to afford to do anything so we'd have plenty of time to experiment with the new camera, documenting the triumph of my decision. 

I have begun to remember more books that are missing, Joyce's "Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man" , T.C. Boyle's "East is East" , Styron's "Lie Down in Darkness".... It is inexplicable that some of these are missing as they should have been in the same box as the other books by the same author, one would think. Why do I have all of T.C. Boyle's except that one, why Joyce? It is a mystery without any clues. None of it makes sense. Was the box left in a hallway or on the street in NYC? Was it stolen by local crackheads? Anything can be true, with no scent back to them save for my fading memories.

But the list is growing.

They are only a box of books, but my life is splintering and I find myself struggling to hold the pieces. The history of my life is as a demented ping-pong ball, ever bouncing back and forth unpredictably, knocked from number to number, to the recurring reds and blacks of roulette. 

I have lived as an errant truffling pig, run amok, unleashed and unchaseable, doomed but laughing.