I don't suppose it's difficult to tell I am missing it.
On Saturday mornings like this one, where I wake up late (8:36 AM) after returning (1:52 AM) from a night out dancing and feel as fatigued as if I had never slept at all, I settle down into the discomfort of not really wanting to do anything. No, I don't really want to finish that draft right now. No, I'm not going for a run yet. Eventually.
I've gone and forgotten the damn coffee. Eighteen minutes stewing in its own acidic juices in the french press. Well, I will not waste it all. Just a little cup. After all, I am only just returning to drinking it, after months of plastic "illness" that led me to further demonize coffee along with bananas, peanut butter, wheat, red wine, pillows, the couch, and consciousness itself. Really only the keyed-up version of consciousness, the one split multiple and over-invested in a hundred directions. As suspicious as it is messianic.
Well, the coffee's not utterly ruined, if it's any consolation.
Increasingly I've been thinking of Stanley Kubrick. Imagine my surprise when I came upon a chapter in Jon Ronson's Lost At Sea titled "Stanley Kubrick's Boxes." Putting aside my unease about journalists plundering Stanley's horde, cabinets, barn-stables, and folders (all the while making me an accessory to the crime, wrought as it was by way of an un-killable curiosity about the manias of our artistic heroes), I was happy to read Ronson's transcription of an acceptance speech for the D.W. Griffith Award pre-recorded by Stanley in order to avoid, well, all of us:
Anyone who has ever been privileged to direct a film also knows that although it can be like trying to write War and Peace in a bumper car in an amusement park, when you finally get it right, there are not many joys in life that can equal the feeling.
photo of a subway station in New York taken by Kubrick in 1946