hope for the cretin stuck in the revolving door at Tiffany’s.



“Abaddon1215 fled across the desert, and Marshall James Brentley chased after him.”

-Brenton Tutu, “Abandon All Hope” Book One of Nine.

Life is a journey, as Jung postulates, with the goal of a mature, entire personality as the over-arching concept.  Life will break us all eventually but before our time comes, we have a kind of tunnel vision, a maturity that helps us to put it all in perspective.  Or are we just being quiet, waiting for the low sound of death knocking at our door?

Throughout life, the wolf is always at the door, it seems, the Thomas Wolfe, “you can’t go home again” and all that jazz, such dire prognostication, dismal forecasts, dull protrusions of the frontal lobe, that it is no wonder the most learned men of science don’t put us yet all that far removed from apes, with our big hairless foreheads and peppering of hair on our knuckles, not far from climbing in the tree for a fistful of bananas.


Existentialism and politics have it in common that “perception is reality”, or “reality is the sum of experience”, and we find, after climbing the mountain, that the experience is really in the climb and not appreciating the sweeping from the climax, like we kind of cheated ourselves out of appreciating a journey, like drinking expensive rare wine just to get a cheap drunk, without stopping to actually the savor the bouquet, appreciate the flavor, as they tell children to “stop and taste your food”, elseways, five minutes later, you’re lying on your side moaning and groaning, wishing you could throw up, because, honey, you ate too fast, after all.

You had an orange.  Some frozen apple juice. A cold cut sandwich with mustard.  But did you enjoy it?  No you didn’t, because you were too interested about getting back to your painted pony of the spinning merry-go-round, thinking you would “miss something”, though nothing new happened, spinning wheel still spinning along as usual and all that, youngsters vomiting up cherry lollipop gore all over the place, that looking like they were older drunks with bleeding ulcers, but smelling like some kind of hospital antiseptic, and you find not the smell of the actual child puke, but the thought of making that spray metaphor is what makes you nauseous, that you took the idea into yourself and actually wasted a couple of seconds making a mental association with it.

So until next time, praise your maker, thank Him.



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