Posthuman Blues

I wrote the preceding essay in a coffeeshop. While about half-way through, a noxious teenage girl occupied the computer next to mine and preceded to watch country and rap music videos at full volume. This annoyed me greatly, to the point where I almost shed my usual aura of introverted calm and said something rash. But I was afraid I might start something -- you never know with these fickle, television-addled suburban types -- and smartly refrained.

I'm still sitting here. The music fan has moved on, and it's getting later.

I've reached an interesting nexus in my personal/creative life. For the moment, I no longer feel the same stinging need for companionship that colored much of my life from 2000 to 2005. I realize this is subject to change, but it's enjoyable, like emerging from the winter cold into a warm, cozy room, a room lined with bookshelves.

Eventually I'll tire of it. I'll look out the windows too many times and walk out, once again, into the blizzard, buffeted by hormones and the peculiar mandates of loneliness. But for now I'm warm, at least moderately comfortable, and easing into my own flesh like someone breaking out a long-neglected suit in preparation for some rite -- a celebration, maybe, or a funeral.