It's Horrendous To Be A Novice

It’s horrendous to be a novice, to be new at anything, particularly if there are people around, I was once put in a position of making change for a customer in a health food store and thought it would come to me, I’d seen thousands of people give change, it’s as natural as breathing, but no, not for me, I froze. But there’s another side to the coin and that would be novelty. Novelty is fun. Anything new is exciting. Maybe not a new moon, any new moon is just the old moon repackaged in its drift through sky, the palms of Tunisia swaying in a Mediterranean breeze. No I mean something shockingly new. When was the last time that happened? Was Covid the last new thing to emerge? It sure has disrupted a lot of lives. That’s not what I meant by new. Not what I think I meant. And now I wonder what do I mean by new. This sentence, for instance, is new. It’s never been written before. Maybe it has. It probably has. I’d better think of another sentence to use as an example. Let’s say this sentence has the icing of significance on it, it’s a completely new sentence, so new it shines, it cries out, it stumbles, it floats, it ascends from the ocean with a great reptilian head shooting flames as it’s two huge reptilian feet make imprints on the sand and its eyes (for we do not know its gender) shift back and forth looking for something to eat, to lift into its gaping mouth and chew, and now this sentence is totally out of control, it’s easy to see how its evolution flirts with the insularity of its reverie and the utter superfluity of its creation. So hey, cousin, let’s do something dangerous together. Go flying in a pterodactyl costume across the great fortitudes of kohlrabi in the gardens of screwdriver and succotash. For this is New Jersey. For this is happening for the first time. For this is a demonstrative adjective. And this is a Chablis in the hand of a derelict. And this is a woman at a bus stop saying nothing. And this is a shadow lengthening across the sand of Arizona. And this is Walt Whitman sitting down at a big mahogany table to sip wine and read a poem to a few people. And this is Mick Jagger practicing ballet at age 79. And this is a man in faded overalls pressing a seedling into a patch of dirt. Eternity convulses in your eyes. If depression were the clitoris of the brain I’d smile all day. And now my arm hurts. Those windows in the skin aren’t entirely natural, but the view is pretty, and the pulsations can make a sarong blaze with the murmur of embalming fluid. I believe that feeling can be expanded by a nice warm brain and if expressed in words a pretty world of  Iceland Poppy Persian buttercup & black-eyed Susan blossoms on the grave of Jackson Pollock.