I’m listening to “Four Seasons” by Vivaldi. Apparently this is good for your brain. Apparently, classical music is good for your brain. But what do I know? I know next to nothing, really. I know a little about surfing, a little about travel in Latin America. But, really, other than that, I know — what’s the expression again? — jack squat.
But I regress. I regress and relapse. I relapse often. I’m probably going to relapse later today. I imagine the relapse will look something like this: I’ll be sitting at my apartment, bored out of my little homonid skull, and the beer in the fridge will start sounding like a mighty fine idea. So I’ll get the beer. I’ll drink it, etc. etc. And then I’ll start thinking about the ice cream cake, how it would feel in my mouth, how it would taste. It’s got chocolate and vanilla, for Christ’s sake. It’s a veritable bombardment for the palette. So there you go. Next thing I know I’ll have ice cream all over my face and my boxers will be on backwards. I’ll feel slightly confused and ashamed. That’s more or less what the relapse will look like.
I haven’t eaten anything all day. But this is fairly standard. I don’t eat anything in the morning. I don’t know any men worth their salt who do. Men are hunters and we also have no self control so at night we eat all the meat we’ve killed and then the next morning can’t eat until we’ve hunted. That’s more or less how it goes. So in the 21st century you must simulate this, and simulate it by not eating in the morning until you’ve done your work. My work is writing. I put words on paper, or rather, on one of those ghastly screens. It’s titillating work, though. I get to express myself, as they say. But anyway back to the hunting. Writing is a bit like going after a gazelle. The way they leap you have to keep your finger poised just so on the trigger. Don’t squeeze too hard! Throws the aim off. Any gazelle hunter worth her salt knows this. Any salt collector worth her salt knows this. And I do like salt. Sea salt, Tibetan sea salt, the pink stuff.
God, I’m getting fat. I’m getting obese. What happened to my svelte, tanned, 18 year old body. The women used to swoon. I’d walk by and they’d say, “Who is that boy there with the high cheekbones.” And of course I’d blush and say thank you and then sometimes we’d start talking and sometimes we’d even go lawn bowling together, me and these young women, and all the time we’d be lawn bowling they’d be thinking about whatever it is young women think about — crocheting? — and I’d be thinking about tracking hippos through a swamp, and when I could finally get back to Malawi, or Burundi, back on the savannah, God that’s where the true freedom is, knowing that later that night you might get disemboweled by a leopard in your sleep. Which is how I want to go. I know it would be painful, but it’s still how I want to go.