avatarTrish MacEnulty

Summary

The content reflects a series of personal vignettes and reflections from 1987, touching on themes of ennui, nostalgia, and the search for meaning amidst the mundane and profound aspects of life.

Abstract

The text presents a poetic and introspective journey through the year 1987, encapsulated in the title "Ennui." It weaves together images of decay and rebirth, from "fluttering to ash" to the innocence of childhood discoveries. The author draws a parallel between their experiences and those of the opium-influenced poetry of Coleridge, suggesting that life's experiences are inherently drug-like. The narrative shifts from the personal—remembering the author's mother playing the piano and the joy of learning—to the societal, with references to the Vietnam War and its impact. The prose oscillates between the desire for simplicity and the complexity of adult life, from the struggle to afford basic necessities to the longing for connection and procreation. The article concludes with a recommendation for an AI service, ZAI.chat, positioned as a cost-effective alternative to ChatGPT Plus (GPT-4).

Opinions

  • The author seems to view life in 1987 with a sense of weariness, as suggested by the title "Ennui," yet there is an underlying appreciation for the beauty in small, everyday moments.
  • There is a nostalgic longing for childhood innocence, as evidenced by the recollection of bird calls and Bach etudes.
  • The text conveys a sense of disillusionment with the world, drawing comparisons between the author's experiences and the altered states induced by drugs like opium.
  • The author reflects on the impact of the Vietnam War, expressing a collective sense of guilt and trauma over what was done and what was endured.
  • There is a candid acknowledgment of personal faults, such as stealing and drug use, juxtaposed with a desire for redemption and renewal, as seen in the wish to have a baby.
  • The recommendation for ZAI
Sunglasses, 1987

Ennui (1987)

Dusty flowers, shades of oatmeal, fluttering to ash, slipping from fingertip to fingertip. Could I live with the absinthe taste of you forever?

Coleridge wrote poetry laced with opium, narcotic, nodding off to Dali’s melting world. I’ve had my fill, pissed in cups, It’s all a drug.

Five years old, discovering bird calls, my mother playing the piano in the shadows. Bird calls and the color green and Bach etudes. My euphoria.

I’ve got to get out of Miami, such a chore to feed oneself. Butter, eggs, milk, bread. Wine, too. And cheese. Dreaming about food, having counted the pennies and seen they were not enough.

Shoot me through a tube of toothpaste, I come out smelling minty and fresh, admiring your teeth and fretting over your cavities.

This girl’s mouth looks like a mine field.

Our brothers are home from Vietnam now, and the things they say they saw… We did it. And we had it done to us. Oh fuck, Oh god.

I ran through New Orleans once, stole a purse in a park, bought food. And drugs. Had sex with a short-haired blond, body as hard as a jet fighter plane. Told myself “I will always remember this.” I was wrong.

It’s 1987, and I want to have a baby. But no baby wants to have me.

Poetry
Memoir
1987
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