Feeling somewhat nostalgic for my dissolute youth, I'm drinking beer from a can right now. I'm probably going to get up and pour it into a glass shortly, as nostalgia ain't what it used to be. Why, when I was middle aged you could get the best nostalgia, real high-quality stuff. These days it probably all gets outsourced, and nobody seems to be able to get it right. Gee, I miss missing the old days.
But at least I'm not missing English people murdering one another on PBS tonight. They aren't doing murders on Sundays right now, and I'm only missing yet another production of "Les Miserables." I had to read the book in high school, and have seen so many versions since then that I could just make a passable one up in my head. Anyway, French people mass murdering one another off-screen is no substitute or English murder, even when the French people are being played by English actors. It's probably just a well— at least for tonight— that I don't have a television anymore. I'd surely be as disappointed as I am about the decline of nostalgia.
There are things I have to do to get ready to go to the bank tomorrow. It's unlikely I'll wake up early enough to get them done before I'll have to leave, so I must do them tonight. Naturally I'd rather just crack open another beer (is it ever going to cool down out there?) but that would be unwise. I would just forget everything, and spend the rest of the night in unsatisfying, unmoored nostalgia over nothing that ever was.
by Hart Crane
Forgetfulness is like a song
That, freed from beat and measure, wanders.
Forgetfulness is like a bird whose wings are reconciled,
Outspread and motionless, –
A bird that coasts the wind unwearyingly.
Forgetfulness is rain at night,
Or an old house in a forest, – or a child.
Forgetfulness is white, – white as a blasted tree,
And it may stun the sybil into prophecy,
Or bury the Gods.
I can remember much forgetfulness