Appeasement, atonement, euphemisms: these expressions wouldn’t matter if they were really real, but they are not. They remain excuses for the hot-winded. If a butterfly didn’t have wings it would be no better than an ant. If a butterfly was never a caterpillar it would have no chance of rectifying itself, or reflecting on what it could have been. There it would be, just a worm. Irony, I call it. Something of the sort, the like; the kind, ideally… -I bet that wingless ant is apologetic even without knowing what it lacks. Crawling across the ground, low to it, in an army, marching, in the dark, automated by commands, such is the life. However, the ant is not a worm. I wonder about the Queen Ant though, and these restrictions we must follow- rules, morals, ethos, law, grammar. And I bet she never read Nietzsche.
This town is full of sales men and women, marketers. They are not unlike the ant, or the worm, or certain lawyers, they are low to the ground. Not all I say, but a few I know lack moral and imagination- the insects that is. They look for one thing, fibrous, pale-green, marked with historic faces and statements of trusting God, dollar bills; which accumulate whenever your eyes dart at a canvas (I use canvas loosely): words, models, statements. They want you to look, subconsciously, to remember a slogan minced with sex, alcohol, drugs, wants-for-needs, like that, you go home and think, ponder, fancy. Pharmacies were built bottle by bottle, and they drew up the blueprints. You say: I need that, I need that, I need that… Every little space you see in front of you is used for some purpose, but what? Even if it is the air you breathe.
We sat at a coffee shop, inside cold air-condition, Mapps, and thought of smoking cigarettes. The pink and orange clouds moved across the cityscape followed by darkness, heavy, symbolizing precipitation. I estimated it would get wet, it did eventually. The patio was shaded by the newly remodeled building. Cars drove by. People spoke. We lacked a lighter as we mentioned death. The only really real thing in life is death. Just like nothing is impossible, not even saying that everything is possible is possible- that is impossible, so everything and nothing is impossible. I read the over hyphenated obituary and thought of tUnE-yArDs. My India Pale Ale was nice, full-bodied, and yellowish-amber, sat cold in a glass. The waiter was healthy. He had to find us a lighter.
To “Jerome” (fake name),
I noticed your email. It was tender, kind and honest… I am just fucking around. Your email was nothing short of trite name calling, a misunderestimated effort… I am sure you moved those newsstands on to the sidewalk, you paid to have them there, you set them up to draw attention, and some little punk stole your goddamn space. You never imagined me. Funny how things work both ways; it so happens that if you put your paper there and then I come by and put my paper there, after, covering your paper, your attempts become void. Threats are provocation, insults are inspiration. Everyone around this town knows a thing or two about that, in some way or another. We are the same in that we are different, so let’s get along with one another.
Free to all. I stand behind what I print, even if it stands in your newsstands. Also, they stand on my sidewalk (via: tax dollars). I wonder if that feels good.
“When you wear a mask always sound like a liar.” –tUnE-yArDs
The problem with language is the person using it. Not understanding language is the folly. Not reading, or being unable to read is a tragedy. Avoiding the conversation is possible. I don’t know… I think people are objective until something is at stake, and then we introduce the modern episteme; we have fight or flight, we do one or the other. In this case there is a third response, a subterfuge. Still always remain these ubiquitous labels. We have a break in the connection. One party is the somnambulist and the other is lucid, awake, alive, controlling the circus, contorting the concepts, and skewing the margins. What for? Self-gain. And no one is the wiser, mostly. Nothing is all that sad, except for the idea that some will exist solely to bring others down, to live off of their accomplishments, while offering nothing of their own, boasting, verbose, delusional. That is how they exist, not unlike a virus. Not unlike ants or worms, never taking flight, very close to dirt.