Hell is the Passage

So, although it wasn’t pleasant, there was something entirely appropriate about a six-hour bus ride on Friday during which my attempts to keep plowing through Stach’s Kafkanalysis were met with obstacles that included the driver’s forcing upon us a viewing of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and a seatmate who could only listen to Taylor Swift at volumes that allowed me to make out every word. I would periodically look up from the page to note that everyone in the vehicle was eating up a formulaic blockbuster whose plot and special effects really weren’t any different from any other action film, save the green hue of most of the protagonists. Again, appropriate: what better epitomizes the absurdity of contemporary existence but a double-decker box full of people hurtling down the highway while drooling over bad cinema they didn’t even choose to watch?

I’m in for a return trip tomorrow, and although I’m guessing I won’t be able to finish the big biography during the ride, I might just dig into to a copy of David Whyte’s The House of Belonging, which I picked up at a little indie store this afternoon. I’m not sure the sort of disturbances experienced yesterday will be as easy to confront, somehow, if I’m trying to bliss out on poetry…


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