My skin felt loose. My eyes felt displaced and hollow. Everything worked as well as it should—something is wrong. The outcome of an existential crisis was only to find oneself dilated into a self-perceived advancement, wearing a different shirt. Sometimes an older shirt, but often a near opposite on one single scale than the previous one. If the color changed, the make and cut were strikingly similar. Only slight changes were ever universally allowable, it seemed.
I maintain the demeanor of a mathematical scientist. Inside, I am a confused and privileged aloof idealist, self-isolated in a row of neatly procured particle-board units of Japanese economy furniture. Adjacent, on the plastic Hardwood floor, lay a succession of perfectly baked pastries. No one will eat them. No one will sit in those chairs, or use the tables. Everything is manufactured to be useless and banal. That is what we prefer. Underwater paddlers, still speaking like valley girls, now in Silicon Valley, California, circa 2007. A world of wacky waving inflatable arm flailing tube man opening day invites showing the fade of years passed by. Single-word expressions, such as "Oh my God," said in such an androgynous undertone. You be the guest.
So much happened then as I recall—far too much to recall in point of fact. He put motors on bicycles just to be somewhat different, maybe unique? Fuki sushi was so expensive, I wasn't full when I left, though the boat of assortment looked more like See's Candies than satiating man food. Maybe I was wrong all along? Perhaps always being slight and cute and hungry was uncommonly the superpower—to always undereat? I was chasing my tail right to the bank. Suck in those cheeks! We are an androgynous army of mimetic despots. Cat power—the secret to life and into the hereafter?
I liked the smell of new. I was addicted to it. I wanted to be new. The pungent smell of perfection. New shirts always, new $100 tee-shirts with inconceivable writing scribbled at odd angles randomly on the front. That is what my calling card can be. I could be Shavian; I could be passive-aggressively polemic and unique.
Squares—little tiny squares. A Zenzic generator is all I was ever required to be. I am a pre-first-generation cyborg; the Teleology of techne has not quite yet even made itself out.
Arrested—I was arrested by the ontology. Sardonic useless people, overpaid nurses chattering overpaid chatterboxes. These are all quite content to be mediocre within a pool of elites—in other words, they like stuff yet cannot live with themselves for it.
After all, what is true piety? Could Spinoza or Hume ever truly surmise such a cosmic claim? Perhaps let us get lost in the calculus of Leibniz so that we may not allow ourselves to admit that the madness falls somewhere oddly right-triangularly placed so precisely yet randomly between John Dee and Søren Kierkegaard—that is a scary thought.
So we hide and hide. We hide from ourselves. We hide from one another. Brandishing strange items always, as if these were weapons, but oddly not—quirky, intentionally quirky. Perhaps a spatula or a grotesquely oversized bedazzled gaudy cell phone encased so that the hand and wrist had to pivot to roost the article in question, as opposed to being able to grab. "My, my hands are far too small. I, I can't. I just can't grab." All the while, using pity to put those sex fiend lawyers to work, threatening buying and selling the score.
Baggy pants now, I walk alone. The dye is designed to make you think that you flew too close to the sun—the damage is hardly self-inflicted. What could I be in this world? What type of fun lie could I spin a yarn to and tell, for the long. A long long yarn that should take me into retirement. Yet I had no one to closely emulate. No diabolical jewish witch for a grandmother or a Hebrew speaking grandfather—a high level shriner brandishing a humanitarian Palestinian flag while reading Albert Pike verbatim.
No I was alone a loney a loney boy—a loner boyo. No hopes for me and certainly no grants nor loans. A loney still but all alone in a ceaseless world full of despots in probate.
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