They say that if you follow an unpredictable thought
you’ll eventually discover temptation. Nothing in life is certain. Not even
certainty. Certainty is a ruse invented by roses. The fragrance is exquisitely
ironic. Or you could say something different entirely. Words are decisions
wrapped in nomenclature. A rose by any other name might consist of more than
three dimensions. That there is mystery in the universe is a coefficient proven
repeatedly by slurps of chicken noodle soup. If you’re going to include it in
your description, it should cause cubes in addition to fuses. It all depends on
how comfortable you are with the current décor. It’s ok to like everything and
rub against things and all that. But if you’re looking for escape, you’ll want
to go into the hills to find the right medicines. Culture is either Marie
Laurencin or it's a garden: you decide. There will always be a certain amount
of aluminum around to boost your confidence in abstraction.
The tongue isn’t the strongest muscle in the body. It’s
not as strong as some of the other muscles, such as the quadriceps, gluteus
maximus, and masseter. It’s still pretty strong. Strong enough to lift words
like death, Dharma, and floccinaucinihilipilification. Before the larynx, there
was the Vortex, from which, through which, and into which ideas are constantly
rushing. The tongue, in its early days, sewed images of lamp black diphthong.
That’s how it found a berth in the mouth. When the mind is on a journey, the
tongue remains silent. But it’s a restless animal. It can’t stay still for
long. It transforms the air into discrete energetic events of sound and
meaning, things like dumbbells, crash test dummies, and clumsy philosophies.
And it starts conversations. And divides things into portents, predications, which
often weigh more in the mind than in the air.
I stumbled around the operating theater looking for my
glasses. I found an umbrella and a sewing machine but not my glasses. I found
my glasses later, which were on my face. These things cease to embarrass me.
You can’t embarrass an old man. Not when he’s seen the things I’ve seen. Heard
the things I’ve heard. Felt the things I’ve felt. Been slapped a hundred times
by the sober truth. Fucked by voluptuous deceits. Fooled by mesmerizing
solicitations. It’s been quite an education. Here’s what I learned: beacons are
the bacon of the backpack cafeteria. Belief is the harness of our prayers. I am
furthermost from myself when I rotate. Jodhpurs are good for ping pong, but bad
for credulity. Avoid altercations. Intuitions work best where the current is
swift.
One of the greatest women of the last century, who was
largely responsible for sewing a hurricane to a consonant, was said to have a
magnificent faculty of silence in ten languages. No, it wasn't Cher. She had
less formality in getting to meet her. One felt elect to feel bliss around her.
A feeling of reassurance to the exclusion of everything else. It’s how I lost
my shyness. I found I could go up banging and talking about mahogany to just
about anyone. Bookcases are made with mahogany, I’d say. If you gaze at it long
enough you can see an idea sleeping in the grain, surrounded by wonderful
hallucinations. It’s how writing was invented. And lingerie.
Is something art because I say it's art? I remember
thinking that once. I still do. A little. A little wistfully. A little
pretentiously. I never thought of art as a magic trick, a deception, although
in many ways it is. Especially self-deception. I knew the empire was decaying.
I just didn’t expect it so soon. Hence, the need for trickery, and mirage. The
persistence of values. The persistence of science, and hot dogs and condiments.
Credible goals. Plausible vignettes. And the aurochs and bulls of Lascaux.
Books in bookstores. A good conversation. And light in everyone’s eyes.
Why are the leaders of collapsing empires always so
strange? Is it because they embody all the vile corruptions of the oligarchs
and aristocrats? Take Elagabalus, Roman emperor from 218 to 222. He developed a
reputation for extreme eccentricity, decadence, zealotry and sexual
promiscuity. Edward Gibbon wrote that Elagabalus "abandoned himself to the
grossest pleasures with ungoverned fury.” The Rolling Stones pale by
comparison. George the III of England would sometimes speak for hours at a time
without pause. He would foam at the mouth as his voice became a dark vibrato of
bones and gargoyles and his vocabulary grow increasingly complex and colorful,
creating stratospheric chimeras and intricate polyglottal cathedrals. Now look
at our emperors. Let them stride through your mind with their struts and
giggles, solemn oaths and shrill proclamations. That mean nothing. But are
inflated with the stuff of dreams and euphoria.
The answer is blowing in the wind. Creaking in the mattress. Curdling in the counterpane. Reaching into my soul via YouTube. Tossed to me via algorithm. Indexed at the back of the book. The Book of Everything. The Book of Maladjustment. The Book of Tongues. The Book of Thongs. Which is a coffee table book. I will leave it your imagination. Last night I had the answer to everything but it slipped away. The mind gets slippery at night. It becomes a place of excess. And imbroglios and monotheists. One person’s answer is another person’s problem. Answers are sectarian. Utilitarian. Seminarian aquariums. Once it is firmly established that 2 + 2 is 5, you’re well on your way to introspection. And confetti. I’m sorry. What was the question?
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