Ex Machina

What ever happened to a scholarship of melancholy? I don’t anyone to open up a can of human condition worms, but isn’t there something to be said for touching on the things that stick with, and stick to, you, over time, insinuating themselves into your life until you must admit that they cannot be defeated, just lived with, or else they will defeat you. Whatever happened to tightly crafted rhetoric that curled in on itself like a porcupine and resisted every attempted deconstruction. Whatever happened to the agoraphobe geniuses who laughed out loud (to themselves) and hung out in small rooms staring at walls and scribbling out a reflecting pool of that process, giving me my life back to me for $24 and seven and a half hours of Other consciousness incarnation.

What ever happened to the rah-rah-rah and the 4-6-3? What ever happened to four-on-the-floor? Are mutual funds that omnivorous?

How come whenever I come to a red light I want to look both ways, close my eyes, and hammer it? Or is that just in dreams?

Have you read Frost? “Design” gives the lie to the idea that “The Road Not Taken” matters. Simple. Direct. And has a white spider.

I am in a library, in the air conditioning. Be gone with me.