Out of Body & Co.

Chris, a heterosexual man (nominally), had said that he has come to realize that the secret to non-derailing casual sex is being able to lock-in on all the nymphomaniacs in your city, town, or region, and that it will have been this capability or capacity that will ultimately have shown algorithms and silicon-based intelligent creatures to have earned their bread and butter, right there in the veritable foyer of Paradiso. My position is that if you go all shoe leather, bust clouds and pound pavement, collecting the stories of the guys and the gals and the +++, ain’t nothing in it for you but grievance and a whole real straight-up freakish array in all that prismatic refraction. I meet anybody, first thing I ask: not ‘is this trouble?’; rather: ‘what in sam hell kind of trouble are you, honey? Enlighten me…’      

I am not sitting across from Chris, but rather his cousin, my efforts to get to know whom actively or retroactively the instantiating tripple-trip pratfall that landed me with Chris, my downfall. The cousin is mincing words and forking at his salad. This is not somebody I ought to have attempted to endear myself to under any circumstances. That’s okay. The world is a happy idiot fish fry or it is a thirteen hour tragedy in which you get your eyes poked out by trick hands. Look into my eyes, Mr. Cousin. I got Chris whacked. Oh, you’ve got something on the corner of your mouth there!
The bitter tears of Chris.
Ottessa Moshfegh, Death in Her Hands: “But there was no body. No bloodstain. No tangle of hair caught on the coarse fallen branches, no red wool scarf damp with morning dew festooned across the bushes. There was just the note on the ground, rustling at my feet in the soft May wind. I happened upon it in my dawn walk through the birch woods with my dog, Charlie.”

My mother was a pitcher for the Mariners. Or so the saying goes. Claudius is in the commissary, or at least that’s where I last saw him. He read Graves in the Nordic North. Claudius—who is an oversexed seaman and frightening—believes that the only real law of the land is that a barking dog never bites.

Ottessa Moshfegh, Death in Her Hands: “If there was anything I’d learned from Agatha Christie, it was that oftentimes the guilty party is lurking just underneath one’s nose.”

Voodoo, Carolina. We are here for gettin' reconnoitered in 'em darnkess body suits...

Gary Indiana, from his savage-as-hell novel Depraved Indifference: “Warren needs to sign some property over to a friend. That friend would sign a quit claim so the property has to go back to Warren next time it changes hands, at some point in the future when we’re not facing a judgement.”

AT SOME POINT IN THE FUTURE. WHEN WE'RE NOT FACING JUDGMENT. DIG?

And then later, in the same novel, page 133: “Echoes of Mavis, memories of Mavis, scattered bits and pieces of Mavis had wafted through all of Warren’s subsequent experience of Carnal Love, and now Mavis loomed, like a fata morgana, on the discernible horizon of his immanent Personagehood, his arrival as a public figure—as if Mavis herself, like the arctic williwaw, were steadily blowing him towards his destiny.”

The Lady ICE: ai in my body. The scariest thing about your phone is that is should be listening to you…in order to be a properly good phone. Your phone needs to know its stuff. 

Chris sends his warmest regards. Say hi to your phone for me.