open letter to the world

broke in nyc, winter; so cliché we belong on broadway. plus there’s a great sickness descending. (click on post title for more…) broken: laying in bed with all this time and too ill to take it. in my more rational moments i know that we’re beautiful and transcendent, that every day we live is another titillating chapter in some future tell-all: “sprezzatura reified, rising in humdrum manhattan” – sick days brimming with unusable time inclusive. relatedly, last friday my buddy joe and i had a conversation about poet andrei codrescu, the overarching point of which was that today’s infra-digs become tomorrow’s art stars. regardless of a decreasing enjoyment of other people’s art – regrettably based in my own self-flagellations and impossible standards for aesthetics and authenticity – this sort of martyred horatio alger mythos is undeniably appealing to someone like me. someone, that is, who sometimes sees the best and worst of himself in jesse michaels and stephen daedalus; whose bread and butter is social transcendence (butter) founded on an oversoul-tapping elemental love (bread). all things considered, we all soldier on in spite of contrarian realities and spectered limitations, re-creating ourselves in rocky soil, shoulders out and taking it squarely on the abnegating chin — working toward a sustainable psychic contentment, yggdrasil flowering despite the eagle and the snake. the last thing anyone needs is someone pasting fucked-up pieces from the past into some bum-out collage for us to depress about. le monde es mal fait, and best intentions aside, we’re all too good – and too otherwise occupied – for that kind of treacle-y bullshit. specifically, i’m too good for that bullshit, which is why i prefer to leave it behind.

feeling better,

nick courage