While I am not some unfeeling automaton and it does hurt to be shamed, ridiculed, and lambasted whenever I go off on adventures to your cities, nations, and provisional autonomous territories, or even when I merely venture out into my own terminally corrupted town with its clown car inferno of rubber-stamped octopus faces, I always nevertheless very much enjoy my ramblings and benign wayward information gathering schemes. Hurt and hate will not triumph so long as there is Daffy Duck, and you heard it here first, little gibbon. I am doing my thing and circumventing you and your crew because you are a colossal downer and the things I'm off after are as groovy as a dang phonograph record, dig? You know my favourite thing in the whole known cosmic canyon of human experience-qua-experience? Saying my bedtime prayer and then lying down and spreading out wide. I set out to do the mischief I set out to do because it's clearly going to be fun, though haters gonna hate, incorrigible and irate. I am doing my casual workaday thing and breaking time with my toys. It's my favourite job I ever had. When I return from these swashbuckling assignations on the other side of time's prismatic fold, not only do I not require a brief intermezzo of homebound R&R, but I feel revivified and ready to take on all comers, a poet's terrible tempest in my temples and a tantalizing tetrameter manning the nerve meter and rotating lower quarters. Consciousness, soul, spirit, and essence cannot be eaten by worms after we're kaput. We are insoluble in eternal dissolution the way rainwater is forever, within a margin of error. Past a certain point all appearances are too porous to any longer countenance...let alone meaningfully consume. If you are eating appearances you are going to die. What it is at work frenzied and sordid in me is the good priest’s desperate, well-meaning-but-already-failing prayer not to leave the parishioners worse off than he found them. Don’t overthink it, buckeroo, ride your spiralling kayak upward unto God. If they give you an open casket spit right in their self-righteous eyes. What more is it you foul horde want of me, the perennial heel? I have endless anecdotes for all tastes, a mind that collates fun, tawdry, or revelatory facts with an alacrity none can match, and I possess additionally the crazy person’s much-mythologized zany and overwhelming magic in the field of lovemaking.
The Red Light Bandit (Rogério Sganzerla, 1968)
Ici et ailleurs (Jean-Luc Godard, Anne-Marie Miéville, 1976)
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