I’m not depressed now but I am deeply disturbed. I don’t know which is harder, living in this fucked up mess we’ve made for ourselves while depressed, where at least one’s subjective state seems of a piece with what is around us, or being of a ‘normal’ mind… or whatever you call it, and not having a clue how to reconcile the contradiction between feeling emotionally at home in the world, and yet profoundly alienated and out of sync. I walk down the street in Center City with a huge chip on my shoulder. I see business men in their Brooks Brothers suits and I want to punch them in their faces, knock the fucking iPhones from their soft puffy hands and stomp on them. I don’t know what to do with what I see–all these people going about their business with neither curiosity or awareness of anything or anyone outside the suffocatingly narrow closest of their self-constructed reality.
I sat on a wall in Love Park eating my falafel sandwich. Near by, a somewhat scruffy man dressed in black, suit jacket with tails, a stove pipe hat sat playing a violin. His case open for change. A man came by with a fancy camera and took his picture. He seemed to be looking for urban exotica. He turned and left. I wanted to run after him and shout in his face–if you’re gonna take pictures of street musicians for fucks sake, leave a dollar in their case! –but i couldn’t get the messy falafel wrapped up quickly enough and he disappeared. I told the violinist, he should put a sign in his case–that if you’re going to take photos, leave some damn change!. I gave him a dollar and bottle of water I’d gotten, but hadn’t opened yet.