I am remarkably good at waiting: I wait for Boomers to (finally) realize it’s not all about them and (finally) retire (or die); I wait the commodification of my art; and bishops, partners, college, friends—all of them for which I’ve waited at one time or another. Maybe, my art is waiting.
Who would buy waiting, though? Who would pay to wait in line? What would they wait for? Would they wait just to wait some more? Why are you asking me? I don’t know!
But if you’re waiting to wait with me, I tell you: I’m preparing a place for you. I don’t know if it’s beautiful, but it’s a place. It’s got a bathroom (substandard motel-fare, I’m afraid), but clean linens. The walls are covered in dark paneling—very seventies, oh-la-la. There’s no roof, though, just a childish sky of yellowed sunsets and rainy greys. You might have to sleep in the rain.
Every once in a while—a great while, mind you, never daily or even yearly—dark will overtake the room. The lamp hanging by a chain will go out and the clock won’t flash. The iridescent hum of streetlights, too, will be no more. In the nothingness, you might smell smoke like when you were camping as a kid and your Dad put out the fire by dousing it, but on its own, it dangerously became aflame again—on this smoke do you choke. Struggling for breath, you rise from the roofless room. In the future, I promise you will need cane if this happens.
I don’t/can’t/won’t promise you anything. The odds are almost as good as catching a snipe on an autumn’s evening in a paper bag. But, all the same, I made this place for you. Will you wait with me?