I was just accepted for a position on the first floor of The Strand. I think. I was very distracted by an acute case of depression, which I had been doing my best to disguise with sanguine continence. But the calling manager, who overheard my jumping for joy (and giggling with glee) changed his voice’s tone as he explained to me that I would have Tuesdays and Thursdays off. He sounded a little annoyed, much to my chagrin. Then he told me to come in next Thursday (the twelfth), which implied an obvious contradiction.

Now I have this reality-encompassing fear that a) I’m going to walk in on Thursday to the first floor information desk, and the manager will refuse me with a laugh, saying “a job for you at Strand? …hahaha, there is nothing here for you, you pathetic philistine failure!”, or b) that my overzealous exuberance at getting the gig prevented me from hearing a first offer I halfway may have heard him start to say as I failed to contain my excitement about an initial position on a higher floor (or better-standing strand of Strand’s crew) which my ill-timed jouissance convinced him (the calling manager) to renege, and amend, downwards.

I hope I’m just paranoid, but then I also kind of hope I’m not, for my sanity’s sake. Which brings me to the core of my current pathos–I have been feeling increasingly trapped by the rock of my extremelly limiting (veritably castrating) lack of funds and the hard place of both having become so hopelessly mired in psychoanalytic and antipsychoanalytic conceptual theory that my F.A. essay is practically capsizing from sheer incoherence, and the perfidious tease E’s turning out to be, and the vituperative self-loathing automatically ensuing at both having allowed myself to be so easily swayed and the plain, ineluctable fact that I haven’t even kissed a woman in over three months, coupled with the suspicion that this proverbial desert of the real will go on for quite some time, quite some time…

Firstly, I do not need to buy any more books. I do not need any more books. I should not buy any more books. I will not buy any more books. Secondly, I cannot join any more movements, clubs, organizations, charities, institutions, et al, etc. I have stupidly become involved with SMIN again, and an overwhelmingly foolhardy and onerous weight of biopolitical activism is on my shoulders. If I follow through on my commitments to canvass, recruit, train, “activate,” and compose the lion’s share of the 04.14.2015 “NYC shut-down’s” outreach program, there is no possibility of changing or overcoming or ultimately acheiving the desiderata mentioned on the last page.

Tack on top of that (yes, by the gods there’s more) my consenting to join a Mr. W.D. in the development of a re-launch of a (hard) scifi radio show. D’s an aged and rugged patron of the kind of boyish scientistic ogling of the sort of all-consuming impetus to get Humankind to the stars that sees its unconscious telos as being at once manifest destiny, genetic injunction and first cause. He’s nerdy, but incorrigably innocent, or so it seems thus far. He is resolute in his conviction that we should already be on the Moon, mining Helium 3 (what is that?), returning it to the International Space Station (ISS) to fuel not the Earth’s economy, but more, exclusively more vessels into not only interplanetary, but interstellar space, purely out of capitalist fervor, or (at best) piggy-backing capitalism’s (hopefully…or perhaps not) inevitable expansion into space. One thing he is objectively correct about is that we as a species do not have long to dwell on this planet, indeed likely will not survive the 21st century, if our effect on Earth’s ecology continues to carry on.

So. To start, I need to find a way to state my F.A. thesis as simply as possible, adding clarity to its concept in little steps, as all these others and Others pull me in, move on, or stubbornly rest as unreliable constants, at this specific juncture. [And, uh, whatever is to become of Sonder Q?]


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