Wicked quiddity

Liquidity.  Over a year ago, I noticed a waxy residue, sticky as pitch, glazing my sagging, browning fern.  Turns out the culprits are scale insects: tiny bodiless (or headless) parasites which siphon sap with a nightmarish, toothed/hooked protrusion.  Their discrete individualities are undeserving of the plural: they’re really one colony, making my job as exterminator as difficult as that of a social reformer: there’s no heart at which to strike, no regular pulse to monitor.  It’s infested my fern and broken my will.  I was told scales are pesky, but nothing I do eradicates them.  I know deep in my heart of hearts there is a substance that would decimate the scales and leave the plant unharmed.  I think there’s such a substance for everything.  Looking at my fern, still dwindling after so many amputations, and imagining the hideous non-existent faces of the ovular bugs, slurping down the plant’s life-force, I conceptualize the quiddity of a thing as that which is undone by that substance, the substance which kills it instantly and otherwise doesn’t nick a fly.  Hence, the essence: uniquely destructible yikes.

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Everybody likes to be naked, just not around me. 

Resolved:

 Be a famous farmer.

  

Debut as your true self in your old neighborhood.

Let a sudden wave of realness wash over you there, so the streets run with little rivulets from sewer grill to sewer grill. 

Brave the bath.

I understand how scared you are, and how you mutter prayer-like excuses like nonsense in your sleep.  Incessant whisper of the sold-out night.

Reality can mean a whole new body.  A whole new shining vehicle of self!

Don’t misunderestimate the malfunctions they call feelings.  They are dangerous because they are NOT FEELINGS.  They are your next door neighbors’ feelings, rationed out to you like their vision of seeing you in your bedroom; they haunt you when admiring your sprinkler’s virginal diligence so you do not do it in the full shining way.  They are small and minor when compared to the real feelings you’ve never experienced.

Show yourself everything you have.  Don’t be afraid of seeing yourself as you really are, and small.  Even the smallest you could ever be is so much larger, solider, more shining than any monstrous delusion of yourself you hold now.  It’ll be like a mirror made out of a technology from thousands of years in the future. 

Back into the light, sidle up in the shadow.  Don’t let them smash up your rear. 

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. 

Criminal Heroes

Criminals are heroes: they keep the cops off our backs.  Were it not for gangsters, thieves, and the like keeping the law busy, there’d be a pair of beady eyes staring in my bedroom window right now.  Every society needs a criminal buffer between the people and the power: an atmosphere of criminality, an ozone layer of criminality.

Actuarial tables and The Fall

It’d be interesting to look at actuarial tables throughout America’s history, and see the old formulas losing money these days of catastrophes, cancers, chain-reaction side-effects.  Getting closer to cataclysm? Lloyd’s of London about to go under?  Bailed out by a side-effect: an operating principle called a billionaire.  The man without a cell-phone! the second richest man of all, the heroiiillliiianaire waving his hat and saying it’s ok. We’re all gonna be ok these days these changes. For what are days if anything but changes, stasis intercalated in time: time which is the end of time.  Because if time doesn’t end, what will? Sell me a share of Berkshire Hathaway A, and I’ll think just like you long enough to tell you the answer.