I have news for you Mr. Baker, you know? If you can eat it, it’s not art. If
you can say ‘I’ll have that and a cup of coffee,’ that’s not art. That’s a snack.
—Fran Lebowitz (on the subject of the bakers who refused—on religious
grounds—to bake cakes for gay weddings)
[Name Removed] says my hedge fund’s no turkey, but that we should go out
immediately and purchase a Picasso, that we should move into our very own
condominium by Easter, if not by this Tuesday. The truth about beauty, of
course, is that it swims in an ocean of blandness. The offense that the sum
course, is that it swims in an ocean of blandness. The offense that the sum
of these contraptions of gilded violence has imparted onto humankind is
immeasurable, I say. And so to deal them a right getcha, I accept them
each as a gift. They come in all sizes and shapes, are always in disguises,
often rather ingenious ones at that (think Trojan Horse), and might be
slung from anywhere by anyone at any time. Given the lack of decent
alternatives, I choose to make a sport of it (one must never look a gift
horse, etc.). And so I yawningly egg on the onslaught of atrocities that
today’s de-evolved pseudo-sentients, with their inflated egos and sun-suck-
ing greed, feel I must know, intimately, at whatever cost. I give them the
satisfaction that they have put me in my place and have reminded me of
who I am. No doubt thinking themselves too clever by half, their various
contributions of blight “force” me ever nearer the rough edges of surreality,
to the margins, if you will, where it is delightfully quiet, but for the sporadic
sounds of nature and the dull hum of swiftly moving electricity. As it turns
out, this is my sanity, it’s where I take refuge: here, at the outer rim of
existence. As I can look inward, toward so-called civilization, from which
I remain a safe enough distance away to carry on, to maintain some
curiosity and to focus on my studies, I scrutinize each drifting vessel. I
watch one churl flimsily postulate that Post-its (their glaringly blank
canvases), know no limits, are to be revered; while at the same time
having a bit of fun with another crank’s forcible attempts to disrupt the
swing of my “soul cycle,” all the while I faux-pout and scoot further out
toward the very perimeter of existence. It is from there that sense can be
made of this all but uninhabitable planet. So, I chip away at the detritus,
trying to discover a way, if one is out there, one might coexist with it
(or adjacent to it), or if there’s a way I could simply escape all of it, to
find my own singular, sustainable piece of the universe. Maybe someday
I shall find the answers, come up with the antidote to the nauseating
mix of the violence, the vitriol, the boredom and mediocrity. Until
then, if and when I wish to have my chakras banged or bent, I
will be the one choosing from whom. Or this is what my inner
voice, with as much gusto as it can muster, says to the rest
of me, as I float backwards, away from the chaos, closer
and closer to some ideal home, a peaceful oblivion that
grows ever more desirable the closer we get to each
other. I look back, toward the demise of humanity,
wave a great big hello with one hand, and
clutch at my gut with the other.
