One of my friends, Hunter, has a blog. Sometimes he’s a grumpy little curmudgeon, but about half the time, he’s brilliantly poetic. So, I kinda just wanted to share an (long) excerpt of his latest blog post on his last day on his business trip to Stockholm:
I love being in European cities, especially when it feels fall-ish like it does now; it feels so out of time, so disconnected from America, and maybe it reminds me of my first trip to Paris, nine years ago now, in October or November, I forget which. And then, in Paris, with my friend Amber and her friends, I drank too much wine (and smoked too much joint) one night, and was down for the count: Threw up, got undressed, laid down in hotel bed, had the spins; But I rallied.
I roused; washed; re-dressed, and came back into Amber’s hotel room, where the party was still going on. ‘I am Lazarus, come from the dead!’ I said. ‘I have come to tell you, come to tell you all.’
We went out that night to a basement club, hot and sweaty. We walked along the Seine in the rain. We took a black cab back to the hotel. Later in the trip, we visited the Pere Lachaise cemetary, fall leaf-littered and blustery. We saw Jim Morrison’s grave, and Maria Callas’ (‘whoever she is’), and Oscar Wilde’s, which on the observe reads thusly:
And alien tears will fill for him
Pity’s long-broken urn
For his mourners will be outcast men
And outcasts always mourn
Now in Sweden I think about that; or I think about that often. Now I’m listening to Robin Holcomb; a cool breeze is blowing in from the Baltic:
Consider, friends, when this you see
How my life was lived by me
How I shall pass I cannot know
But I don’t mind to be starting over
Sometimes when I read Hunter’s posts, it like totally brings me out of my reality. This post in particular partly reminds me of the feelings I had when I lived in Florence, just after college. Everything seemed possible, and everything was romantic. It kind of makes me want to quit my job and move back, get some shit job where I work for 3 hours a day (and don’t have to be “professional”), then siesta, drink wine, write all I want, read, & eat pasta for the rest of the day. It almost might be worth it that I would probably have to line dry my underwear all the time, and probably not really “get shit done” when I would like to, or be able to go to the bodega/grocery store whenever I felt like it. You know what I would be able to do, though? Eat really good produce. And not give a fuck about some staff retreat that I have to wake up at 6:30am to get to tomorrow.
I guess it’s not toally unfeasible that I actually do this. After all, I did sort of just pick up & get out of Southern California without a plan. Maybe this is my next big step? Or am I just running away from responsibility? All I know is that I would give anything right now to not have to wake up at 6:30 tomorrow.