TheBanyanTree: I think (from Friday)

[Monique]

I shall go home and write an epic poem.

 

First, I shall have to learn to rhyme, for what's a poem without a rhyme?

 

Hush. I may not know anything about poetry, but I know it's not something I
should be attempting in yet another feeble, addle-brained attempt to explore
my deepest subconscious and impress my friends and neighbors with my
knowledge of the finer things in life, like the arts, and literature, and
good cheap Mexican beer, which should be eaten only with carnitas tacos and
extra helpings of chips and guacamole.

 

What's that? I'm incoherent? Your point is?

 

When am I NOT incoherent? For that matter, what is coherency? Speaking of
which, I am having the most incredible cramps. I know that one does not
speak of these things in polite company, but when did anyone ever accuse you
of being polite? Or me, for that matter? Never, that's when. I know it's
never because I remember it well. It was a foggy day, it looked as if the
fog would stay all day, but my midday it had started to burn off, though how
a fog burns is a mystery to me, and the sun had started to make itself
known, and by late afternoon I had achieved a dark tan which threatened to
turn into a third degree sunburn if I did not immediately move myself out of
the sun and into the shade. 

 

Never. Ah, those were the days. Now we have no never, just now and sometimes
then, and ever, but never never. That's okay though - if we were supposed to
have never now, we'd certainly be having it, instead of whining about the
lack of it, which really doesn't accomplish anything useful in the least. 

 

What's that book? The one written entirely in gibberish? I could do that.
Gibberish is more than my second language, it is my first inclination, it is
my salvation, it is my release. In gibberish, no one expects logic, nor
common sense, or coherency. In gibberish, I can be me absolutely and
completely, and be misunderstood or understood or reunderstood, or whatever
it takes to make a billiard table out of nothing more than a piece of felt. 

 

That's an analogy for something, but I can't remember it.

 

I'm obviously suffering from a high fever which is giving me the appearance
of having mislaid my brain. But how can that be? Is not my head fully
encased in my skull? As far as I can tell, my skull is airtight, skintight,
and there are no little doors to let the brain out. There is only solid wall
from cerebrum to cerebrum, and back again. (What is a cerebrum anyway? Is it
anything like Cheerios?) 

 

I have just written a dissertation on the nature of work. It was a short
dissertation, just a couple of sentences really, because when it comes down
to it, what is there to say? It's certainly nothing to write home about,
though many people do: "Dear George, today I went to work and I worked all
day and I worked really hard. Now I'm tired. How are you?" Writing about
work is about as interesting as writing about the number two lead in my
pencil, though perhaps not quite as interesting.

 

This is what I do for work: I take one piece of paper from Pile A and move
it to Pile B, unless I put it in Pile C or E. Pile D is only for those piles
of paper that never move, which rather begs the question, how did they get
there in the first place? They could not have been put there, for that pile
never moves, and so it could not have moved to get there. I have no answers.
It's a deep philosophical question that only a legion of monkeys working
alone together in a room with a thousand typewriters (those antique, quaint
and archaic machines of yesteryear) could eventually hammer out.

 

Of course, assuming they did hammer it out? What next? A committee of 37.3
people will have to review the question, and the answer, then issue a
retraction stating that they never saw the question, nor the answer, but if
it is resent to them they promise to give it a serious going over. 

 

This is nonsense, because the committee will never be able to make any sort
of decisions, and won't even agree to disagree. How sad is that, when even
"agree to disagree" cannot be achieved.

 

If I weren't in so much pain I'd continue clearing off the flat surface I
call a desk, so I could complete today's projects (or at least delay them
until Monday), but that is not to be, not quite yet. 

 

This has continued long enough. I do hope you weren't reading through all
this gibberish in hopes of finding a meaning, a story, a fable, a
philosophy, a rack to hang your hat on, or a traveling carriage to carry you
back to your illusions, because this is it, this is all of it, this is all
there is, and there's nothing of substance there except what you make of it,
but if you can making something out of what is essentially nothing, then you
have done quite well.

 

That, my friends, is called living life well.