Our favourite pub, The Dolphin, on the quayside. A man in the corner spits onto the floor. That's you in five years, says W. The man continues to spit, spitting and spitting onto the concrete floor. He's drunk, as drunk as anything. I've always felt akin to alcoholics, W. notes. They're kings of the world to me. They know the apocalypse is coming, he says, which is why they drink, he says.
Why aren't I an alcoholic?, W. wonders. It's a kind of bad faith, he says. I should at least be alcoholic. I should be falling off barstools like the druknards in the opening shot of Werckmeister Harmonies. In some important sense, I haven't followed through, W. says. I'm not consistent. I'm hopeful despite myself, W. says. What's my secret?, W. wonders. What sustains my existence from moment to moment, given that the certainty that life is shit should give me no such sustenance whatsoever?
Lars Iyer's Blog 