I often feel that I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t recognize the guy walking into work while he thinks of his tobacco pipe, he flinches at his aching hip and thinks of his tobacco pipe and walks into work this morning chilled with the light of dawn and the headlights of other vehicles sweeping past him, irritating him but enabling him to feel alive in the pale glow, he woke this morning into a haze of sleepiness as if birthed from a subconscious womb but feeling somewhat rested lying in the darkness while his lover stirred next to him. The winter is going to be cold, he thought, not recognizing the voice nor its source, and can it be that we’re all not who we think we are in this strange world of wind and porous skin cells and grotesquery and kindness. We don’t recognize ourselves and that’s why we move through so slowly, so silently, adjacent to our true selves, invisible, that selfsame creature whom we would recognize if only we could see.
Published by TJ McAvoy
I am a thinker by trade and an artist by definition. Primary influences include, in no particular order, Chandler, Voltaire, Saramago, Borges, John Coltrane, Nietzsche, Ricardo Piglia, Emerson, George V. Higgins, Manuel Puig, D.F. Wallace, Cortázar, Denis Johnson, Michelangelo, Italo Calvino, Cormac McCarthy, Juan José Saer, Keith Jarrett, J-Dilla, Roberto Bolaño, and Don DeLillo. View all posts by TJ McAvoy