What Cannot Change Dies

Not much happened today. Madeline and I went shopping in Soho, which for the uninitiated is south of Houston St. (pronounced "House-ton", for arcane reasons, under punishment of tarring and funny looks). I was looking for slick duds and preppy styles. I have decided that I am a fan and proponent of the "Mama's boy" look, with the even more extreme sub-culture of "GrandMama's boys", typified by dog-eared hats and knit sweaters with cutesy alternating colour patterns, and if you're daring/awkward/pathetic enough the little helpless mittens with security strings to prevent loss. Okay I lied, I don't actually like the look of security-string mittens, but damn they're useful!

But in all seriousness. My days of embarassing whale-mating T-shirts and undersized alpaca wool sweaters are over. I have discovered the exciting world of dignified attire! There's something really satisfying about having your own style. Something almost emancipatory about it, even though in another inescapable sense it is always bound to the economics of BUYING nice clothes.

And those economics are a bitch! I've never stared so cravenly into the abyssal depths of my wallet as I have here. And in another sense this town, as much as I relish every precious and fortunate minute I spend here, is a constant reminder of how utterly privileged I am in a global sense.

*WARNING: The experienced staff here at Blogspot have detected elements of PHILOSOPHICAL DISCOURSE in the following Blog material. For your protection proceed at your own risk. Any injuries that result are your own god damn fault.*

But another part of me doesn't care. I remember some time ago reading Siddartha, by Herman Hesse, and getting to the point where the protagonist suddenly goes ape-shit, disavows all his priestly ascetic ways, and delves without restraint and only a hint of remorse into the hedonistic and consumptive life. At the time I didn't get it. I believed totally in denying the trappings of this world - the whole modus operandi of getting while the getting's good (that is, INTO the "this-life" of void tree-hugging oblivion - a sort of earthly druidic platonism). I worshipped this.. idyllic return to a freedom devoid of any materialism or mundane attachment. Aghast! After all, what kind of spiritual hero forsakes the golden path for pleasure and abandon?

At this point, of course, I could do the whole internalized Christian shtick and basically identify with Hesse's project, only from the perspective of an enlightened and wise person who has come to understand the necessity of passing THROUGH the period of hedonism into a more enlightened, more righteous and lucent "freedom" from earth.

Fuck that!

I would much rather say, at this point, that I passed THROUGH an idealist period of indulgent and romantic world-renunciation, a dandyism that spurned every fragile, brief, and painfully beautiful bit of human existence along with all the disgusting, vulgar, narcissistic and violent bits too. The latter can't just be discarded! It's all part of the same package. Who wants the vacuity of pure non-attachment? How can we ever be unattached? What the hell does that even mean?

And look, lest I come across here as some kind of bizarre reformed-socialist, pro-capitalist reactionary let me just say that, for the first time in my life I feel GOOD about myself. I feel like the external me that wanders around, crashes into things, commits horrific social blunders, and somehow manages in unexpected ways to endear himself to a select group of beautiful, understanding, and far too charitable people (you know who you are), is becoming consistent with the internal self that broods, questions, doubts, criticizes, agonizes, and craves salad for breakfast.

I've got to totally re-examine what I understood, what I THOUGHT I understood, to be happiness. I never had it, and yet I felt I could speak so authoritatively on the subject, for so many years. What presumptiousness!

I went out shopping today with Madeline, and all I bought was a scarf. But it was a very nice scarf, and it really went well with the new coat my mom got me for Christmas. And damnit it looked GOOD, in the window of that store, with my hands in my coat pockets and that stupid sheepish grin on my face. Seeing myself for the first fucking time, meeting myself for the first fucking time. It felt good. For the first fucking time.