sometimes when I sit down to write I get this unusual awareness of the way my hands work. The feeling of which parts hurt, and which muscles I flex to perform certain actions.
There are a number of little things like that. Things that show up when you don't expect them to and remind one of the things that generally remain hidden.
Last night at a party I was finishing a cigar, by myself on the patio, and I just stopped. Everything just stopped. I looked at the long grass and the detritus that lay on some parts of it, and was overtaken by the odd beauty it had. Even the burnt couch off to my right struck me as magnificent.
The point of all this is I don't care for most of the rest of the world, and it's only these blips of magnificence which keep everything else together. everything would disintegrate were it not for these moments of lucidity.
I don't have them nearly often enough. I really wish they were the default rather than the exception. That the world should go on with primarily horrible goings on , and these little graces are the only respites, all that seems cruel to me.