"Every human being is involved in a desperate attempt to narrate himself into a safe place."

It’s 5:10 pm, MST. Do you know where your self-affirming narrative is?

Eight ducks just flew over the building in a nice V. I can dig that. I am staying late, working on the perfectionist impulse that nine or ten years of listening to various strands of indie music (from the backpackers to the shoegazers, I hoped to cast a wide net) tried to stifle. It is a strange impulse for me to try to rectify, in part b/c one aspect of my personality that is not cultivated, but naturally exfoliating, involves a certain tendency to take shortcuts and accept certain mediocrities, even when they begin to abound and spread to areas of heretofore excellence.

Ah, narrative: the stories we tell ourselves, inevitably honeycomb structured, with entire levels comprising of little white lies or the larger, more pus-laden variety, overlaid with layers of truth and goodness. The thing is, it’s hard to know self-deception for what it is, and it’s clear that sometimes self-deception answers Polo to your better side’s Marco just because it has an interest in letting you in on seedier parts of life so you’re placated and don’t go after the bigger, darker secrets (atomized, wholly destabilized self; absolute relativism; existentialism but without the pretension or the tangential promiscuity; secretly liking movies about how bad the suburbs are – all that jazz).

Anyway. Back to work. You all get doing what needs done.