Who would you rather kill, JFK or Laura Palmer?

Even Agent Cooper wants the Torah, that November day in Dallas, impossible to solve, easy to understand.  It’s easy for the police because they look at the newspaper longer.   Coincidences conspire toward the infinite.  The author’s name: the letter D is used four times: the reader.  After hundreds of metaphors  try to become stairs and mirrors, readers from other nations build in the temple of the article.  They add their own centuries, the temple of every possible mathematical operation, bullet wounds in the body. 

 Three!, says a coroner with the confidence of a first grader whose grandmother (who thinks the child’s a genius) holds up three fingers.  No one can even agree on the temperature at the time.  He is the president, facts accrue until they fall into mysticism.  Nobody knows who killed JFK, implicating millions.    

 So that’s the nature of the impossibility of reality, that woman of regal proportions in fur, bejeweled by a grand stair and a chandelier, made up to look thirty-two, but near, is fifty-some, the fox in the light, fake.  Wait - the fox, dead, is real.

:(

:(

Everybody likes to be naked, just not around me. 

Love

To speak philosophically, Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem. Nothing is easier for humanity than knocking boots. Humans can knock boots with both hands tied behind their backs, blindfolded, upside-down, underwater, drunk, asleep, high. (In fact, it might be better that way, hehya!) There is virtually no condition under which it is impossible. Nothing is more fit to our nature: we are boot-knocking fools.

You think driving is easy? Of course you do, you’re a wonderful driver. But try driving with both hands behind your back underwater blindfolded upside down and asleep? God bless! good luck! my love. . . .

You are lovely. You were born for leisure, for what comes easy. You were meant for a life of pleasure and comfort, not a life of travail in this industrial mortal madhouse. You are royalty. Don’t strain yourself: every bead of sweat is a deformity; every wince, a disfiguration of your angelic cheeks. Do what comes easy. Knock boots. A godsmith worked the exquisite chain of your DNA with the most minute, fragile hammer; tapping it, ever so gently, with genius and with love. Every delicate twist in your DNA turns you in that direction. Like a plant to light, you turn. You turn toward what comes natural, you turn toward your nature. You turn toward . . .  you know.  Knock boots, weird freak, get loose like an octopus, tremble like a leaf, burn like the morning star.

This, my love, is philosophy.

True Story

In this city, it’s women everywhere.  Heaven, right?  Ha.  Hell, if you’re a short schlubby guy like me.   Not only am I short and schlubby and look like I have no money, but I got meat on my bones.  I don’t even mean fat, I mean muscle: I have what I thought was a nice body, but girls here want some string-bean hipster thing.  They want a vintage coat, itty-bitty jeans, scarf, and scruff on a string, marionetted down the street.  The skinnier the better: they’d dispense with the guy inside all together - to get closer to the platonic outfit.  They don’t want a real man.  Then the mayor cracks down on prostitution?  Does he want me to die a virgin?  No luck, that’s my lot.  But then, ok, FINALLY, I’m walking down the street and up ahead I see this girl and you know what? She’s SMILING at me.  AT LAST!  I can’t believe it, but two steps later it turns out she’s just got down’s syndrome.  Fuck.  True story.