Member-only story
On frustration
Charting with the wrong map
I was told it could be, fugues. A single fugue. Liberally, lightly, a dissociation. A term tossed into the wind by a loose grip, one that needs a tighter feel in the fingers. In New York, there is confidence, pinned shoulders, and a pitchfork’s heel, a spine that could thwart the Empire State. In Florida, a slouch within cushions fit for the most egregious Roman emperor. At 21, a Carrie, but at 25 a Samantha. “I can’t drink like I used to,” but do I want to? There was bravado, now a void filled with Truly. A 5k on Thanksgiving you used to wake up for. A Christmas morning that spanned decades, between 2 and 5am. Now, you, feeling the vast and quickening shortening of the telomeres, have commandeered your family’s Nespresso (setting a barricade worthy of Les Mis) and wished Legos were still age-defyingly enticing. Joy locked away within camcorders and Polaroids. Dorian Grey stands beside you, as you are beyond all simple pleasures in life. A portrait painted with a dull brush. You can rent a car without hassle, and were you politically charismatic, may yet become a loathsome American president. Your credit score is OK.
A career is linear; it achieves hockey-stick growth at a rate that exceeds personal comfort, defies the national birth rate, and underperforms parental forecasts. William Carlos Williams was a physician. What beauty contrived in…
