There are several cigarettes on the ground beneath my feet. I consider writing a memoir, a poem. (Maybe about the cigarettes, maybe about something else.) I consider being Norman Mailer again. Maybe this time I can shoot for Mira Gonzalez. But no; I'm not stuck in a punitively sexual age, but I couldn't be Mira. No one really can be. Or Norman.
I think about stream of consciousness writing. I look around on the bus, and I see people all on their phones. I laugh to myself because that's not a cliché anymore; it's just a state of being. My father glues himself to his phone when we're having family time. Who knows what he's actually looking at? I’m 3,000 miles away now--he’s still looking at his phone.
But that's where we are: trampled cigarettes and blue screens. And I'm okay with this--there's comfort in this world. Crazy, maybe.
I wrote a poem, by the way. I wrote a poem about the cigarettes and an imaginary friend.
I'm sorry I'm overbearing you with these thoughts. Maybe it's because I'm reading McGuane's Panama. Maybe I'm just tired. I'm sorry, I'll stop now.