Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Moist Tender Lies Of Quivering Truth

Today I am making a stew. A mélange. A mixture. A medium of solutions.

All solutions are hollow. Which is to say hole. If all solutions are hollow, and all hollows are holes, are the holes hollow, or full of solution?

If a male barber shaves all and only those men who do not shave themselves, does the male barber shave himself? Because if he shaves himself, he does not shave himself. So that eventually a beard comes into existence. A beard that does not exist. Because if the beard were to truly exist, it could not be a beard. It would have to be something else. It would have to be sagebrush. It would have to be flagrant. It would have to be a chocolate tree, or ecumenical wraparound.

If a woman (let’s say Sigourney Weaver) travels back in space, and time, and kills her great-great-great-great-grandmother, who she mistakes for an alien, a slimy tentacled alien with a long probing tongue, and warts and bad manners, is she actually killing herself? The alien in herself? But how can she kill a self that never existed? And if she never existed, she could not have killed her ancestor. Which would insure her existence. So that she may continue to star in movies like You Again. And travel back in time where she will encounter the alien that is her great-great-great-great-grandmother. And cease to exist. In order to exist.

A stew is a stew is a stew. Soups simmer. Bacon sizzles. Stews stew. If the stew moos, or barks, or cries out in the middle of the night, is it still a stew? Or a misplaced surgical scar?

It is a stew. Carrots, potatoes, beans, tomatoes, sausages, and seasoning. All bubbling, blending, mingling their essences, as words do. Pulpy, slushy, piquant.

Stewing is suitable for meat that has a tendency to be a bit tough. Stewing makes it tender. Stewing slowly brings out the juices. Moistens gelatinous connective tissue. Which makes it the ideal medium for cooking a paradox. More or less. Probably less. Because less is more. More or less.

This stew is a genuine mendacity. A complete lie. I do this for arbitrary reasons. I cannot tell the truth but by lying. When I say I am lying, I am telling the truth. It cannot be otherwise. I am far too honest not to lie. The truth is always false. The false is always true.

What is actual is stew. Onions. Carrots. Dry vermouth. Moist tender lies of quivering truth.

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