“People who spend $400 plus accessories and bitch about spending $2 on a missed episode can shampoo my crotch.”

Goddamn it, another remark I cannot use (and the source of which I have lost) but will treasure always. Because you really must have dongles in your pants to make it work. I believe in precision of usage. I believe in the power of metaphor. I believe that when a thing is said most correctly, it’s meaning goes off like fireworks—large or small—in the body, and that this our signal of what is right. Somewhat in the manner of rods and cones, the way you can see a distant star only by looking slightly askance.

It does seem rather odd—that the way writing works is by drawing another picture of a picture, yet I expect this is what perception wants, like rereading a favorite book. Art is for people for whom the thing itself is not enough, they wish to repeat their devotion at will. Yet I believe, in our helplessness to create and recreate, we give ourselves over to a human necessity that lives in nearly everyone. Or perhaps dissatisfaction has to rise up in concert with a certain, rather touching belief that things could be better. If only. If only you could see what I see, the artist says—which is always, even in works that show the darkest, saddest side,  pointing towards some light.

Do be careful whom you nudge, however. I have learned that, generally, if you are a woman, stick to other women, and children, keep the rest at the safe distance of a public. Where I am certainly completely wrongheaded interpretations occcur, but are somewhat buffered by the space. Why wrong? I wish I knew. Often it seems you could be touching the hem of God his or herself—and still arouse in some, wrath enough to kill. This hatred of the positive … is one of the things I wish I had the latitude to talk about, but I do not. Some day I will, and shall explain all.

Tags: god

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