A Lament for True Attraction

Large crowds and draft beer. Loud music. The old pub-crawl.

Goddamn, this scene never changes. No matter where you are, who you’re with or how long it’s been, it’s always the same. And though I put up a good front, easing the brew down my throat and bantering into ear holes beneath the pounding Top 40 bullshit coming from the sound system, I can’t escape the thought.

Winter months and a dusty pocket book lead to misanthropy, and misanthropy leads to inevitable introspection. When one finally does venture out into the world to actually socialize with other humans rather than simply conduct business with them, that introspection is unavoidably turned outward.

Everywhere I look – sex, sex, sex. Naked apes in ridiculous skins, playing games. When animals meet they sniff each others asses. We consume alcohol and engage in pointless conversation. When you’re out on the town getting drunk with the college kids, it’s looks that talk. The sidelong glances, the slightly prolonged stare, that fleeting moment of eye contact. Everybody dressed their best – hair gel and makeup, tight t-shirts and jeans, bursting cleavage. It’s an old, old game, and one played continuously by proles and aristocrats alike, all over the globe.

Finding some actual substance in this mess is a job worthy of the most seasoned miner, the most Herculean rig. Yet sadly, no oil will be found, no geyser will be hit. This is The Land of the Lost, The Meat Market, just another business.

Where are all the diamonds in the rough? Where are those people consumed with passion and purpose, driven by a true attraction to life? Those people who, for this reason, are truly attractive. You won’t find them here, that much I can tell you. For them, I’m sure, this would be a disgrace, an unfathomable waste of time. Strip away all the surface gloss from this scene, remove all the conditioned thoughts and emotions and what do we find? Empty hearts and minds. This ‘happening’ scene never even took place.

Glen Gould, the eccentric genius and heavily-awarded concert pianist, was often mistaken for a bum in everyday life. He gave no thought to what he was wearing. When NASA released the Voyager space capsule in 1977, to eventually be slingshot deep into interstellar space, one of the musical pieces chosen to represent humanity was The Well-Tempered Clavier, written by Bach and performed by Gould.

Albert Einstein apparently had a closet full of the exact same suit, socks and shoes. His reasoning was simple: he didn’t want to have to expend one thought on what he was wearing. Not one.

And so I find myself here once again, getting loaded, listening to the same old shit and marveling at the futility of it all. These faces, these people, they never change – they’re one and the same, no matter where I find them. And so, I guess, am I.