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i began the decollegification process by putting my bong away when i wasnt using it.
this seemingly trivial adjustment required others----i had to walk the bakeline such that:
(a) i would remember that away was not on my coffee table in the middle of my living room, which unwittingly treated the bong like it was a chalice on the table-altar and
(b) i would not then find myself standing in the middle of the living room, late at night, wondering where i keep it, while thinking with more focus about oreos or brownie mix.
i found that the friends drifted away that i once had who thought it was great to smash pbr cans flat on their foreheads--flat cans that i for some resaon would keep around for a few days like they were trophies brought back from a Big Hunting Expedition.
the pbr itself followed.
i started thinking that flavor might be a good aspect of the beer experience.
the problem with this whole thing was that it ran me into this space i was not anxious to get to: living like an "Adult"--which i assumed involved some perverse affection for laura ashley fabrics and other things that would result in the long run in my wearing pastel izod-lacoste polo shirts with the collar turned up, sunglasses dangling around my neck from a lanyard topped by a persistent 70s haircut with a part down the middle and integrated with the floor by loafers with little tassle things on them.
this outfit seemed to indicate that i would become the sort of person who would talk about weather and investment strategies at the tedious parties i would go to, would force myself to develop an affection for sports involving racquets so i could join a club that housed courts that also had a bar, which i could frequent in order to regale other such beings with stories of my vast income and various holdings. or travels. or something.
the prospect was horrifying.
this prospect would of course trigger yet another round of being-toward-bong, which would be greatly complicated by the fact that i had only recently decided that i should put it away when i was not using it, which in turn meant that it was no longer in its normal shrine-place in the center of the living room, with the result that it would not be clear to me exactly where it was.
in frustration, not being able to locate the bong, i would more and more often decide that i was hungry and would cook something for myself in the kitchen.
and that is how it started, this crawling out from my undergradified living space--for purely stupid reasons, i started learning how to cook. and the shift, which was gradual and did not make me think i was going to turn into polo-shirt guy, worked its way out from the kitchen. for some reason, learning to cook shifted my sense of what i was doing, basically, in my living space.
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a gramophone its corrugated trumpet silver handle
spinning dog. such faithfulness it hear
it make you sick.
-kamau brathwaite
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