Tonight I thought about thinking about Albert Camus.
I don’t know how to articulate what it feels like.
The act of thinking about Albert Camus begins and then I start to think about the thinking about Albert Camus.
It is an exercise in chasing my own tail.
In the last two days I thought more about Albert Camus than I have in maybe three years. Ever since I started taking the pills.
Like I’m driving and I begin to think about driving into the wrong lane and about what happened to Albert Camus and then I start thinking about how many times I’ve thought about it and about what thinking about it that much means.
If anyone is out there who would like to discuss the work of Albert Camus in more detail I would love to drink black coffee with you at 2.38am sometime.
Suddenly I’m thinking about Albert Camus and wondering why I’m not thinking about Sylvia Plath. If I wasn’t a misogynist would be thinking about Sylvia Plath and then thinking about thinking about Sylvia Plath.
Instead I am stuck thinking about thinking about Camus and Jonathan Richman and how funny this all is.
