—Madame X
A whole bunch
of people said
that once. And
isn’t it more true
than just about any
thing else? Also,
might you describe
for me and for any of
the folks here in our studio,
as well as anyone out there
who might be tuned in and
just the least bit curious,
how any of this might be
quantified? I’m just kidding.
Because that’d be entirely
unnecessary. I know I am
being less than clear here.
And not that this will help,
but this week, I have found
myself in a very odd place?
By which I mean that every
day this week, as I wake up,
I have been, well, I have been
clearly identifying, explaining
so that pretty much anyone
can grasp, some timely (for me)
problem or another. And then
clearly laying out a fix, a viable,
always confoundingly simple
solution, explaining exactly what
it would take to correct this
gross malfeasance, this massive
humanitarian disaster. What!?
But seriously, if you would just
hear me out for a minute. I made
up my mind, as if in realization that
this sort of thing was way too difficult
if not downright impossible for a me,
I decided, a very long time ago
that I couldn’t change the world,
found it impossible to take
any of our—let’s call them
institutional—problems, to take
any of the way too numerous
problems that face humanity,
that’s us, here in this universe,
that’s home, then to paint a verbal
picture, provide some backup ev
idence of said problem’s exist
ence, including laying out in a
clear fashion to all of the rest,
of us, the magnitude of, the rela
tive harm, that said problem pro
vides to us, each and all, by in
variably crushing or pulverizing
our combined materiality most
assuredly and steadily into dust,
blowing out the dust of us, so
to speak, regularly, daily—
the import of the problem.
See, I’ve already lost you.
I’m not the guy to do this,
that’s what I’ve been, what I
am saying I realized a long while
back, not at all the most eff
ective human to clearly pre
sent the problem, provide
the evidence of it (providing
the evidence of problems of
such magnitude still seems
laughable; I mean, wouldn’t
we all know it’s a problem??
But that’s not even the most
profound light bulb in all of
this, for me, which would be),
I repeat, providing evidence
of the problem and its severity.
Because I’m too close to the
problem?? What?! Well, no.
I mean yeah, I’m too close
to it, that’s certain. To them.
There’re a lot of these problems
that affect negatively our entire
cumulative livelihood, liveliness,
our life, our lives, it turns out. And
I simply don’t have enough voice.
But what I’ve been realizing so
giddily as I wake up every day
this week presenting my case,
in some sort of transition be
tween conscious and not,
presenting it loud, aloud,
from or within some sort of
dream state, and to whom?,
to one in which, albeit in a
room wherein only I live,
posing a clear thesis, laying
the whole thing out so that
even the least of us, the
least of us, me, so that
I might actually get it,
and then smoothly and
articulately finish the
whole thing off (and by
this time, the dream state
has completely dissipated
and I’m hearing my voice
reach up to the small rec
tangular ceiling of my
coffin-sized apartment,
seeing my voice reach
out, because I’m awake
and what I am saying is
clear, makes sense, and
I’m literally making the
noises of it all, lying in
my broken-down and
very real [isn’t it?] bed
. . . . . . Well.)
Those high-falutin’ occu
pations of, sure, of relative
import that we, well, that
I tell myself, have told my
self for as far back as I can
remember, because for some
reason I’ve proven this, to my
self, that these occupations, of im
port, I’ve told myself that I’m simply
not the right man for the job, too imposs
ible, requires too much patience, just do
not have the right kind of intuition, but,
well, it turns out I’m a late bloomer, and
that we’re always picking up a few new
tricks, right? Aren’t we? Am I? Our choices
are not as limited as our little heads imagine;
imagination is limitless. Or we just imagine
something too true, like laziness. Right? Do I?
So, music. There are songs upon which I dwell,
but, oh hell, I could present this playlist to you
so that I might, so that we might feel familial?
We are family! It’s the obvious stuff that’s the
hardest to clearly relay, you know, so that a, say,
kindergartner might get, clear as day, palm slap
to the forehead-like, why didn’t I think of that-like.
Well, I blew it again. But if you’d been here this
morning, we might be well on our way to solving
all of the world’s, all of humanity’s, problems.
I suppose there’s always tomorrow. But, boy,
wouldn’t that be something? Sigh.
Art. Not thought.
dream state, and to whom?,
to one in which, albeit in a
room wherein only I live,
posing a clear thesis, laying
the whole thing out so that
even the least of us, the
least of us, me, so that
I might actually get it,
and then smoothly and
articulately finish the
whole thing off (and by
this time, the dream state
has completely dissipated
and I’m hearing my voice
reach up to the small rec
tangular ceiling of my
coffin-sized apartment,
seeing my voice reach
out, because I’m awake
and what I am saying is
clear, makes sense, and
I’m literally making the
noises of it all, lying in
my broken-down and
very real [isn’t it?] bed
. . . . . . Well.)
Those high-falutin’ occu
pations of, sure, of relative
import that we, well, that
I tell myself, have told my
self for as far back as I can
remember, because for some
reason I’ve proven this, to my
self, that these occupations, of im
port, I’ve told myself that I’m simply
not the right man for the job, too imposs
ible, requires too much patience, just do
not have the right kind of intuition, but,
well, it turns out I’m a late bloomer, and
that we’re always picking up a few new
tricks, right? Aren’t we? Am I? Our choices
are not as limited as our little heads imagine;
imagination is limitless. Or we just imagine
something too true, like laziness. Right? Do I?
So, music. There are songs upon which I dwell,
but, oh hell, I could present this playlist to you
so that I might, so that we might feel familial?
We are family! It’s the obvious stuff that’s the
hardest to clearly relay, you know, so that a, say,
kindergartner might get, clear as day, palm slap
to the forehead-like, why didn’t I think of that-like.
Well, I blew it again. But if you’d been here this
morning, we might be well on our way to solving
all of the world’s, all of humanity’s, problems.
I suppose there’s always tomorrow. But, boy,
wouldn’t that be something? Sigh.
Art. Not thought.
