Ideally I'd be sat somewhere in a nondescript cafe, banging out cultural commentary in a neat serif font. The stakes aren't particularly high, just enough to spawn a solid cult following and elicit nods of approval from those in the know.
And that's pretty much where it all stops, or rather, starts to unravel. It's not quite a sinking feeling (certainly not anymore), but more of a matter of fact realisation that not only am I probably not capable of producing the kind of incisive commentary I dream of - even worse, there's nothing to comment on. I'd be hard pressed to point to any cultural phenomenon that has defined "my generation" and, by extension, me. The last (and, to be honest, only) time anything has ever really moved me beyond aesthetic concerns was this summer when I cried almost every day for about two weeks reading A Little Life on the bus to and from work. It was 30 degrees, salty sweat was rolling down my forehead into my eyes and open mouth, and the only way I could get myself to feel something was to read about the horrible abuse this wretched man had suffered.
What I mean is, I'm neither here nor there. What pushes my buttons is entirely circumstantial, which doesn't stop me from wanting to pinpoint it.
And that's pretty much where it all stops, or rather, starts to unravel. It's not quite a sinking feeling (certainly not anymore), but more of a matter of fact realisation that not only am I probably not capable of producing the kind of incisive commentary I dream of - even worse, there's nothing to comment on. I'd be hard pressed to point to any cultural phenomenon that has defined "my generation" and, by extension, me. The last (and, to be honest, only) time anything has ever really moved me beyond aesthetic concerns was this summer when I cried almost every day for about two weeks reading A Little Life on the bus to and from work. It was 30 degrees, salty sweat was rolling down my forehead into my eyes and open mouth, and the only way I could get myself to feel something was to read about the horrible abuse this wretched man had suffered.
What I mean is, I'm neither here nor there. What pushes my buttons is entirely circumstantial, which doesn't stop me from wanting to pinpoint it.
