Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Pub Mix

Why has writing become so foreign?

What about settling into my life has made writing so hard?

I sat with Ciera at the pub. We had been there so many times. The alternate times, the ones in the summer, the ones in the fall, the ones with friends, and the ones where it was just us two.

We were in our pub.

But it could have been any pub. Two bodies in chairs at a table, looking at a serif text. The seasonal beer, the pub food, the din of adults, the flash of tvs.

This time it was cold and the air was damp. The fall leaves hung heavy under the harsh street lights. And one block and a half seemed like a trek through a slick blackness—a dark humor that had exited the body and settled on the cobblestone crosswalk.

The pub smelled a deep rich brown. The color of whiskey, the tang of mustard, the sound of coats shuffling and settling.

We spoke of our futures. Where we were going. How to make what we wanted real. And we planned. In doing so we learned about each other. The warm yellow incandescence lit the London themed interior. The easiest relationship is the one where the familiar mixes seamlessly with the novel.

It's the same with all art. Something reminiscent, something jarring. The senses never rest—the raw nerve is not damaged from exceptional contact, rather it is brushed or grazed lightly; as if accidental.

Yet fully intentional. And in our conversations, she wakes me up and I learn something new. And she learns something new from me. As we spoke together, our words drifted effortlessly across the table; two conspirators against the world. Young and lost, but happy in each other's company.

I drifted to the Saturday previous. I drifted to the opening night of Domesticity. After a successful performance we had made our way to a bar full of beers. Binders full of beer.

We had gone with friends and filled a table while we conversed with new people. The night passed.

I reflected on what it meant to be part of our generation. A generation that was on the cutting edge of a paradigm shift. We would be revolutionaries in a Huxleyan world. Instead we had become gluttons ignorant of our ignorance and drifting slowly away from the generation before us. Rapidly evolving into a dependent lifestyle—unaware of our shift. What we gained technologically we lost in depth of contact. Hundreds of friends allowed ourselves to compartmentalize our needs.

A little digital universe in which we could be who we wanted, but only one fragment at a time.

The internet generation was in danger of melting away like fat on bone, feeding a fire which we couldn't control.

But for the moment we were just iphone loving money bags enjoying a beer. Uncertain of the future. And very interested by it.