DB: Novembpril

I remember this June. The sun had yet to melt the ice out of my head, everything was frigid and miserable and expectant for more warmth. People were repeatedly calling it June-uary, and thinking that while disturbingly cold, perhaps they were clever, which they were. Most agreed: it sucked, and my only hope was that since winter had not let go of spring, fall would not let go of summer. Today I walked to the coffee shop in the sunshine, and despite my choosing a light jacket over a heavy peacoat, I was sweaty and disgusting by the time I walked in to order. We can call it Novembune, or perhaps more appropriately Novembpril. For whatever reason, it feels like spring.

A new friend from ballet class took me to her apartment after brunch on Saturday to show me her baby birds. Sun shown through the window at a pair of caged Zebra Finch, the mother dutifully puking into the mouths of the strangest little insectile creatures roosted beneath her in a makeshift wicker nest. This rather unapologetic display of life’s hold on this world drew me into a surreal state of mind that has caused no small amount of introspective discussion with my inner blue. What does it mean to hatch in the savage month of vemberlessness? What of the two broken eggs at the bottom of the cage? Were they unable to stomach the whims of our cultural fate? Does adaptation to the current economical climate mean releasing ones perception of season and fiscal formula? Why am I struggling to find answers in the little things that move me?

Is love in the air? No, those are leaves and they are turning into a special sort of slippery gutter-goop that makes for some interesting scooter peel-outs and side-skids. Perhaps the planet is out of spin. I feel as if I am waking up from a period of hibernation. A sort of summer cave bear, having pulled in my effects and cooked up a new cocoon of metaphor from which to hatch with winter wings.

I went to see the 1969 children’s classic “The Phantom Tollbooth”, at the Grand Cinema. I was shocked at how much I had forgotten from reading the book so long ago, and I was also surprised at the thick modernist undertone, posing reason and industry as heroic figures in the fight against the demons of lethargy and meaninglessness. While cute and nostalgic, I found the film to be a disturbing bit of youth propaganda. Especially in the light of having recently watched Apocalypse Now, which I fantasize is the ultimate metaphysitorical record of what was happening in Vietnam during the charged political climate of the college years of those children forced to watch Phantom Tollbooth when it was first released.

Among the more anarchist youngsters I have spoken to recently there is no shortage of comparisons between Vietnam and the current Middle-eastern conflict. On the surface, on can very quickly discern the differences, the most potent of which in my eyes being the lack of a Draft … so far. In some ways I think that the protests of the 70’s are imagined to be the ultimate place to meet fellow passionate youngsters … (and cute college girls to invite back to the flat to listen to “imagine” on vinyl.)

I guess what I am saying is that it seems like back then people gave a damn … these days its hard to “imagine” the common people united in any sort of meaningful fight for peace, freedom or civil rights. Maybe we’ve all been a little too comfortable to think about what’s happening outside of our little digitally informed bubbles. We can’t even seem to rally a food coop, much less end the suffering of our fellow man. The most passionate united youngsters I know of are getting together every weekend all over the city in the distribution and absorption of alcohol. Well … them and there are those kids that are united in a nearly fanatic-passion about the fact that it is nearly mushroom season. You have to be pretty passionate to go marching around in the muck and detritus of fungus friendly earth with waterproof versions of identification books by your favorite mycologist.

As more and more of my friends are laid off, and incomes are strapped to eliminate the typical $50 bar tab, perhaps there will be a sort of conscious awakening. A sober observation of the need to unite in our quest for more than a jovial buzz. Perhaps this is the spring in the life of a gen-x/millennial young professional, and we will exit the cave of our parents progress squinting in the sun of a seriously polluted, violent, volatile, beautiful, possible, wonderful world. God knows we’ll have plenty of time on our hands, unless of course we get drafted.