On Tuesday I stumbled on a band called Bala Clava playing outside the CIUT headquarters on St. George.

Rock is dangerous. Such is the power of the electronic guitar, the lead singer’s voice, the drum beat — that I take it as a sign. Of what? I don’t know. In the up and down of the music, the violence of the mannequin with a ski mask over her head advertising the name of the band, the impromptu nature of the concert on the eve of a thunderstorm, the sign I take is that I should abandon my life and become more reckless. That I should be more potent, live more precariously… but somehow I always think rock means that, no matter where or who I am.

I couldn’t live that way. The allure is in the self-deception, the ability to pull a curtain over your life and say “I am not a man! I am an idea!” It’s much less complicated, and easier, to live as an idea than a man. A man might find himself pulled in many directions, by many ideas, because he is a nest of paradoxical philosophy, desires, and commitments. By contrast an idea is rigid and blind, and it has only one conclusion, which is either temperance or disappointment, or death.

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