MEH AND THE SUBURBS OF EMOTION

The suburbs of emotions.

It is February the 3rd at 5pm. It has been raining all day. Now just gently enough to hear fat drops of water bouncing off shiny surfaces down on the street and the leaves on the trees. It’s wet enough to feel like there’s no expectations to go outside and yet the air feels so fresh there is a pull to do so. The birds are enjoying their baths. I lay in the bath with the window open, there’s a light on in a bedroom and beyond that a horizon with some street lamps in view. With the sounds of cars moving through puddles feels distinctly as if I am ten again. It could be 1985. The cat sits on the windowsill to keep me company. I consider the brand new nuclear arms race, my lack of an exercise regime and attempt to feel out if there is any trace of a libido left in my body. I’ve not masturbated for a long time. I wonder if I care. In the hills there is snow apparently.

When it comes to human interactions, it is often the most subtle of exchanges that puncture the kind of all pervasive dullness I feel of a time playing out over and over again, something Virno claims to be a public feeling attuned to that of a sense of déjà vu.

The dude in the shop going about his responsibilities with a smile on his face and a sense of grace towards his customers. My dentist referring me to a sister surgeon with a nod of togetherness. To me those tiny acts of solidarity and moments of micro-connection feel like resistance to, and a warm embrace of, a sad world. Maybe the potential for generosity of spirit can never become worn out.