Holding a pen like a scalpel, in the midst of an unadulterated abyss, there are no words which can bite the grass like crickets can and do at dusk. What ? you ask. And how I’d like to respond, but the truth is that nothing stays still long enough to be defined and shouldn’t that be enough. Whoever doesn’t think so has sat too long in armchairs before moving pictures of worlds they have no part in, screaming at those blinking lights and weary of the shadows that pop up just about everywhere if and when they are blown out – extinguished. Anguished lights they are, pale and jaundiced – repulsive unless you look at them long and hard untill they become much like a soother filled with mother’s milk for infants abandoned on that dangerous safari that kills before it hunts because isn’t it only after death that souls are recruited? Up in heaven as it is on earth.  

But nothing, absolutely nothing, livens up discussion like ta – boohoohoo. A cry is heard, distant and off of stage left. It multiplies, invades as a cacaphony of unrequited desire. Despair at high pitch. The makeup is well applied and generous while the costumes are tattered, scanty even – scattered - but the elephants do not waver, knowing exactly where those peanuts are kept at baseball games all around the world, hearded into fat sports-mouths while baseball-men watch and gag on their own glory.

Now wouldn’t it be nice to live a stable, yieldable existance, as if Schopenhauer meant nothing at all, when in reality he doesn’t most of the time. Not many of them do – these books with big ideas in them hidden away from those afraid of dust and whiteness, it’s cultural class hell, really. because when you ask prosititues their opinions on Heraclitus they think that they have missed out on a new STD. So That”S WhaT ExistS, is it?- HPV, VD, herpes simplex one (1) and two (1), syphilis, gonorrhea – and the mother of all mothers, the primordial eve of all sexual fear – AIDS (!) If only we spoke of philosophers as we speak of these handles: imagine: “Well, according to Gonorrhea’s theory of the essentialization of the other in terms of metaphysical non-being that cannot be explained through idealization, while being sensed, it is the unkowable creation that is the cause of the pervasive, yet untenable, anxiety. Much like Syphilis’ dissertation on the meaning of neant – of touching nothingness as if it were a massive, enveloping  ephemeral clitoris, it’s essential symbolization slippery and palpitating, gleaming yet palpable.

Or, conversely: “you’ve got Sophacles? Damn, why didn’t you put on your reading glasses – you know you shouldn’t be fingering those books without protection. At least you’re lucky you didn’t contract Sartre. Now that’s a Being and Nothingness that will not go away.”

Perhaps that is the attraction to arms older than the sun before the earth became the rocketship as we now know it to blast off the dead sleeper cells of skin, like terrorits, attacking from all angles against that warm embrace that could have been really nice, if only you had not fucked it up. On the other hand, it could just be blurred fantasy that beckons you from bed to stare out the window and smoke your thousandth cigarette of the week (and it’s only Tuesday now) because you  wished that monsters other than yourself were lurking between your bedsheets intespliced betwixt days of incongruous obscurity, and days of impossible attempts at being something other than you are: in-the-world.