A friend calling, inviting me to Dallas abruptly shattered the silence of my room earlier today shortly after 2am. How can I say no to the sheer impulsiveness of a 300 mile drive northward to my old stomping grounds of Dallas, TX? My capricious nature and Kerouac indoctrination at the malleable age of fifteen leave me little choice, and I’m off just after sunrise. Fast forward twenty hours from that unexpected, tempting phone invite and here I am, taking in the canny, commercialized Christmas carols, blood still finding its way back to my extremities, a physiological wonder which can be attributed to the unexpected north Texas cold.
Recently, I received word from my good friend Casey that he has “apparently graduated”. Upon hearing such news, I am flooded with ambivalence. In one respect I am genuinely happy and proud of my friend, and even on the fringes of jealousy. The other part, however, scoffs at such dubious college success, and is terrified for my friend, as he must now make his way into the even more dubious “real world.” However, his walk into the sunset of academic dissolution will be a short one, as he’ll be finding his way back into another intellectual monastery next Fall for graduate work.
Casey penned the following in reference to my blog:
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I just visited the Daily Rice for the first time in some while; I see now
that the monster has grown beyond the realm of the closet. So, I must admit
the sheer scope of the whole production is somewhat intimidating: I could
not even manage to find the existentialist propaganda I set out looking for.
Good show, though! Good show! I think maybe I'll have to wait on the
story now, as the quality of the venue demands higher standards of work?
just a thought, while your rendition of gatsby is amazing, tj eckleburg
needs more glasses and less face, but the dramatic tension posed between
daisy (who sarah portrays wonderfully, unless she's meant to be the athlete
(the much more attractive one in the film) does sarah's voice ring of money,
you think? i can just see her pouring and sobbing over a stack of shirts)
and gatsby (strapping young man that you are) is wonderful.
All in all, your collage on gatsby says it all, but i'm worried for you now--do you find yourself ever unfulfilled upon approaching that nebulous green light across the bay? dont start bootlegging, your timing's all wrong. Are you stuck on the lip of keats' grecian urn, blessing the notes unheard above those heard and remaining forever on the cusp of your lover's lips but never kissing them--her breath will always be sweet. okay, i'm done now. drive carefully.
ever read tender is the night? there's a lot there. fitz thought it blew
gatsby out of the water.
are you still an anthro major? seems like you're working on a degree in
mysticism . . .
Best,
Casey
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I am humbled by the fact his eyes found the time to grace the screen of my blog, what with the post-college reverie he must find himself filled with. At some point, he simply must provide us with the narrative of my ill-fated camping trip that I’ve so fondly spoken of many times before. At this point, the entire mishap has entered faux legend status and there is no one more qualified to write the glorious narrative than my good friend Casey. The fellow who enjoyed and even shared my lofty dreams of somehow making our way together down the road of angst ridden singer songwriter fame, only to find Elliot Smith styled suicide after finding a dead end. Perhaps we were simply distracted by the numerous signposts of caution, such as “Slippery when Homeless” or “No Parking in Your Parents Basement”.
Either way, our pro bono performances in the stairwells and lobbies for our fellow, generally unimpressed Jayhawks will always live in a warm corner of our memories. I’m not quite sure, however, if our respective memories are in harmony, as Casey suffers from a healthy dose of reality. This is in sharp contrast to my self diagnosed chronic nostalgia. So it goes.
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