Signs abound and puddles of slush, so you leave the house
like some latter-day Candide exclaiming "Nice hat!" to Orthodox ladies
but really we're all just skulls beneath the moisturizer, making the calcium
function as a shell over all that electric gooey mess. One time
I told a class that desire speaks of mortality. Cradling the body
of the beloved is like to trying to stave off death by owning lots of shoes.
And that cute thing of lying with your face close to the other's face
and sharing breath immediately becomes the memory of lying there sharing
breath. Therefore sex is death, everyone. Let’s start an improv group called
Memento Mori Everywhere. The class just looked at me. When you’re twenty
sex is just sex. February, on the other hand, but I digress. Let me introduce
you to the second law of thermodynamics: if you light a match
and extinguish it by pressing it against your forehead, it will not only hurt,
but you'll get burnt. The resulting mark is called the Mark of Cain and it helps
distinguish the well-intentioned from those who live above the law, to wit,
artists. Or am I thinking of Ash Wednesday? Death and resurrection
are constant themes. Small talk and pleasantries until one day
you just throw in the towel & float to some ascension magnified not by doubt
but the realization that we are all so fucking alone. Throwing in the towel
is what we're here to learn how to do. Using that same towel to pin to a pole
and wave around like a flag is a form of personalism so broad & crisp
it makes my teeth hurt. Groucho Marx said that.
(More of our collaborations can be found here.)
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