My dad finally posted something over at his blog — a sort of creative non-fiction piece about being young and pretentious, I think. Or perhaps about young man angst. An excerpt:
Me: “You know my basic philosophies: the blues is always vamping; the glass is always half-empty or lower; the world is continually moving in the direction of entropy. Or as my dear Old One’s said: the world is going to hell in a hand basket. If you expect nothing, you shall not be disappointed. The world talks on and on: blah, blah, blah. I say, as Thoreau said, the world is not half so bad as I am. If life is not a beautiful dream, but something to suspect, to examine, to be distrustful of, to doubt, I am in a pickle: the examiner himself isn’t of such high quality, but I am all I have. How can I trust myself to be the Prime Evaluator? My loneliness is equaled only by my conceit, and surely even I can’t believe that I have any special prescience about the eternal things.”
Iris: “My, how you do go on and on.”
Me: “Here is something new. You know I don’t believe in any science of dreams. People who can’t bear to judge themselves or others in the world ethically, to ignore what is right before their eyes and under their noses, love to dig into their psyche to find hidden jewels, as the jewel hidden in the forehead of a toad. They should realize that they are toads and there is nothing hidden. Excuse my bitterness. My nastiness is speaking.”
“So what is your point?” She looked straight into my eyes, Miss Blue Eyes, seriously, without nervousness, without guile. She held my hands as I made this disgusting confession.
“So even though there is no such thing as a science of dreams, nevertheless I had one last night. I can’t disallow it as a fragment of roast beef or some cosmic compensation for our petty lives. Here it is: I was looking down on a bare stage, klieg lights overhead, throwing everything into the sharpest contrast, black and white and red. I say red, a rusty red on a somehow beautiful lady bug who had red blood spots, splotches, on her back. She for somehow I knew it was a she became a butterfly who was trying to push open a door. But she had such small hands with so little strength! I knew, as I looked, that it was impossible for her to push open this large, heavy glass door. But, lo, her small dainty, powerless hands became Mickey Mouse white-gloved hands, a Magician’s Bullwinkle the Moose white clad hands pulling a rabbit out of a hat, or a rhinoceros or a lion, but out of a hat, a Black Magician’s hat. The door was pushed open with a gloriously easy effort which was freedom itself. The freedom to do what? Well, to go from one world to another.”