The Very Odd Conversation

Skeet: Have you ever set your foot on fire?

Ulrich: Tried to. Didn’t have the right kindling for it.

Skeet: Is that like fondling?

Ulrich: Are you baiting me, boy?

Skeet: If I’m gonna catch something worthwhile, I wouldn’t bait you, that’s for sure.

Ulrich: I feel ya, I feel ya. You’re wrong, but I feel ya.

Skeet: I want to burn my foot.

Ulrich: Yeah, I can see that. You got like a bursa on it or something?

Skeet: Burka. You mean burka.

Ulrich: No, pretty sure it’s a bursa, like a big ole lump, like a bursa.

Skeet: I think that’s a country. Bursa Manjino.

Ulrich: No, that’s not even close, you’re way off. You’re thinking of Brisk, the cool refreshing drink.

Skeet: Huh. Well, maybe, but I mean a lump on my foot, a burka. It’s like a boil, but it’s not.

Ulrich: You should boil your foot. That would probably get rid of the burka.

Me. No, you wear burkas on your head.

Ulrich: I don’t.

Skeet: Where do you wear them?

Ulrich: I try not to wear them, though I got drunk in Mexico once and wound up riding a burro into the desert alone at 3 AM. I woke up in a hut made out of cactus. An old Indian woman fed me raw beans. Nasty shit. No water, so I milked from her titty.

Skeet: Yeah, that happens. I was in South America a few years ago and I woke up naked with honey smeared all over my body next to a mound of termites.

Ulrich: What happened?

Skeet: I got a bursa.

Ulrich: Yeah, yeah, wearing a bursa in South America, people don’t take kindly to that.

Skeet: No, not at all. That’s sort of beside the point, but I can understand your perspective.

Ulrich: You know, sometimes when I’m alone at night, I think of what it would be like to be an archer.

Skeet: I’ve never considered it. Throwing spears, I could see that. I’m not fond of things that bend, though. I think it would be a little fey to carry a bow.

Ulrich: Sure, there’s something to be said for a long-range rifle, especially if you want to be a sniper in a big city, but if I’m in the wild, I want me a bow. I can make arrows, just whittle with my teeth, plenty of branches and twigs out there. But you run out of bullets and what you gonna do?

Me. That’s why I go with the spear. Close-range combat, a guy rushing you, maybe a boar.

Ulrich: Seems like a, seems like a fair excuse for manhood. Sometimes the words coming out of your mouth remind me of mesquite-smoked Texas turds. Some people have a taste for that, but it won’t put bacon on a plate.

Skeet: Maybe a chainsaw.

Ulrich: Yeah, that’s a man’s tool. Got a motor, though. Need gasoline.

Skeet: Yeah, gasoline, that’d help me burn my foot.

Ulrich: What, again with the brusk?

Skeet: Yeah, the burnyon. Just need a torch.

Ulrich: You could hire an archer. Just get one of them to take aim from a good two hundred feet away and shoot that puppy right off.

Skeet: I’m not into killing puppies, but I think you might be on something.

Ulrich: My feet.

Skeet: What?

Ulrich: My feet.

Skeet: No, we were talking about my feet. I got a bursa. Need to burn it.

Ulrich: No, an archer. Maybe a sniper.

Skeet: What about the bullets?

Ulrich: Yeah, have to buy bullets.

Skeet: But you can’t get bullets in the wild.

Ulrich: Good point, good point. Sometimes you make sense. I forget that. Don’t always remember. Often fail to recognize that. It’s like a big hole in my memory, like a black hole.

Skeet: I’ve been in a black hole.

Ulrich: Yeah? Kinda chilly in there, right? A little, a little cramped, maybe? Not enough room. Kinda dark.

Skeet: Yeah, dark. Don’t remember. Drank too much. Happens sometimes.

Ulrich: Huh. You’re like a, like an alcoholic astronaut, exploring the universe one drink at a time.

Skeet: Something like that. Just kinda fell into it, you know. Wasn’t something I aimed to do. Not like I trained for it or anything. Come to me pretty natural.

Ulrich: I like it, I like it. Kind of just woke up a man one day, right?

Skeet: Pretty much. One day I was a boy peeking through the keyhole watching my sister taking a shower, the next I opened the door and got in there with her.

Ulrich: That’s something, not something you hear every day. Lot of people frown on that, don’t know what it’s like to become a man, to get your drink on, fall in a black hole, wake up naked next to your sister in bed. Been there. Not pretty. Not pretty at all.

Skeet: Yeah, you’re sister’s ugly. At least she ain’t vain, though.

Ulrich: I find it’s more appropriate to be good looking if you’re vain. If you’re not good looking, it’s better to find another hobby. Maybe quilting.

Skeet: Yeah, I don’t think you’d find an argument for that one from me. From someone else, maybe, but not from anyone who’s vain.

Ulrich: Which is the only ones that matter.

Skeet: That’s true. My daddy taught me that.

Ulrich: Oh, yeah? I didn’t realize you’re daddy stuck around after you were born.

Skeet: No, he didn’t. A different daddy. “Number 5,” I call him. Momma was popular, had a lot of fellas.

Ulrich: She was vain, wasn’t she?

Skeet: Oh, yeah, definitely. Guys took one look at her and knew she thought a lot about the way she looked. She appreciated that so she rewarded them the only way a woman knows how. I learned a lot about women from her. You don’t want to be with a woman who ain’t vain and ain’t making sure you’re awarded for paying attention to it. A smile goes a long way.

Ulrich: Only if you see it. I think a grope works better.

Skeet: Well, it depends. I’m not sure on what, but it depends.

Ulrich: Things often depend.

Skeet: Yup. It’s like firecrackers. You want to set them off, but you don’t want to have them in your mouth when you do it.

Ulrich: Great point, great point. Those are the types of things parents need to be teaching their children. I wish my mom had taught me.

Skeet: Well, when it comes to mommas, you mostly have to observe because they don’t say much when they’re not yelling at you.

Ulrich: I suppose that’s true, but it depends. My mom never spoke to me directly. I had a nanny, Consuela, who told me what my mom wanted. I once made eye contact with my mom, I was about nine years old, and I cried for a damn week. Once I got under the covers on my bed, I just sobbed uncontrollably. Consuela, bless her, she brought me water and food, gave me a bedpan, wiped my ass, sponge-bathed me, and taught me all about the diablo.

Skeet: I’ve had a few diablos in my life. You don’t know they’re diablos until the next morning and you shit yourself when you see them, just a huge old crap in your bed—or maybe hers. The devil seems kind when you’re drinkin’ tequila, though.

Ulrich: Well, you would know about that, though I think we might be talking about different things.

Skeet: Like what?

Ulrich: What do you mean?

Skeet: What do you want to talk about?

Ulrich: We are.

Skeet: We’re what?

Ulrich: We’re talking about things.

Skeet: Oh, yeah.

Ulrich: Why don’t you let me hold that bottle for a bit?

Skeet: Um, I guess that’s a, what do you call it? A suggestion.

Ulrich: No, it was a question. But kind of a telling you what to do, too.

Skeet: I see.

Ulrich: I’m not sure about that, liberally or feverishly.

Skeet: Did you just call me a liberal?

Ulrich: Hey, if the pot fits.

Skeet: Oh, yeah, I was going to roll a joint, wasn’t I?

Me. You were? I mean, yeah, of course. Here I’ll hold the bottle.

Skeet: No, I’m good.

Skeet: How are you gonna roll a joint while you’re holding the bottle?

Skeet: I’ve done it plenty of times. It just requires congratulations.

Skeet: Well, congratulations then.

Skeet: Thank you. It’s been a long time coming.

Ulrich: I know. It’s not even here yet.

Skeet: That sucks.

Ulrich: At least ya got something to look forward to.

Skeet: You know what’s funny? No matter where I’m looking, it’s always forward.

Ulrich: You’re one of those, ah, what do call ‘em, “forward thinkers.”

Skeet: Yeah, I see forward, I think forward. It’s all ahead of me except for what’s behind me.

Ulrich: And on either side of you.

Skeet: Above and below, too. Here hold this bottle, I need to roll a joint.

Ulrich: Okay. I’m gonna get some more wood for the campfire.

Skeet: We’re camping?

Ulrich: No, but there’s a fire.

Skeet: Yeah, I see that. Actually, I think that’s the reason I can see.

Ulrich: No, you see because of your eyes.

Skeet: Good point. Nuff said.

Ulrich: For the rest of the night?

Skeet: What?

Ulrich: Nuff said?

Skeet: I think you’ve said plenty.

Ulrich: It happens.

Skeet: Not much I can do about that.

Ulrich: No, I suppose there isn’t. You know, I was thinking, maybe you should just put your foot in the fire.

Skeet: What?

Ulrich: You said you wanted to burn your foot.

Skeet: Oh, yeah. Well, I gotta roll the joint first.

Ulrich: Yeah. And I gotta get some wood.

Skeet: As long as it’s not around me.

Ulrich: There’s no wood around you.

Skeet: Good, because that’s not something I would appreciate.

Ulrich: It would make my job easier, but to each their own.

Skeet: That’s right, I’ll keep mine to myself and you keep yours to yourself.

Ulrich: That’s good advice for anyone, not just you and me.

Skeet: I’m glad we’re seeing eye-to-eye on this.

Ulrich: I don’t look anyone in the eye. Not after the diablo.

Skeet: Oh. Well, as long as you know where I’m at I guess it doesn’t matter if you see me or not.

Ulrich: I’m not sure that makes sense, but I’m okay going my own way.

Skeet: There shouldn’t be two ways about it.

Ulrich: Is there just one way?

Skeet: There’s no way! We ain’t going about it and that’s that!

Ulrich: Damn, you’re ornery when you roll joints.

Skeet: I’m just rolling my own. If you want one, roll your own.

Ulrich: What the hell? I thought we were gonna share your joint?

Skeet: My joint is my joint and yours is yours.

Ulrich: Fine, maybe I’ll make my own damn fire somewhere else then. I got the bottle, too.

Skeet: What? Give me back that damn bottle before you go off getting lost in the dark.

Ulrich: You have to a roll a joint, remember.

Skeet: Oh, yeah.

Ulrich: Okay, I’m going to get some wood.

Skeet: Hey, when you get back why don’t you put a log on the fire.

Ulrich: I am back.

Skeet: What?

Ulrich: There’s a big pile of wood just five feet over there.

Skeet: That’s awesome. We’re lucky we chose this spot.

Ulrich: Yeah, it was smart to build the fire right next to where we put all the wood.

Skeet: It’s smarts like that that made you such a good leader.

Ulrich: Some people didn’t know that.

Skeet: Not everyone’s smart.

Ulrich: You gotta be smart to know that.

Skeet: Thank you.

Ulrich: I’m also humble.

Skeet: Yeah, I remember when you took all the credit for things you didn’t do.

Ulrich: I just tried blend in, you know, let the people see me as someone who’s just like them except that I can do things they can’t. That’s how I roll.

Skeet: This is how I roll. Here, you want the first hit?

Ulrich: Hey, thanks man. That is a juicy fatty right there. You’re good.

Skeet: You’re welcome.

Ulrich: You make me feel welcome, even when you don’t.

Skeet: I try to make everyone feel comfortable. I learned it by watching you.

Ulrich: I’m like a roll model to you.

Skeet: It’s sort of like that, but it’s also completely different.

Ulrich: Whoa, now you’re getting heavy. It’s like trying to figure out how to eat a donut in space.

Skeet: Or how to lead a Jew to a gas chamber.

Ulrich: Exactly what I was thinking. It’s like you’re inside my mind and you know what I’m thinking right when I think it.

Skeet: It’s probably because you say everything you think.

Ulrich: Maybe. Still an amazing ability, though, to be able to hear what I’m saying while I’m saying it.

Skeet: Yeah. It’s good to have ears that can hear.

Ulrich: I’ve always thought that. Damn, you’re good!

Skeet: Yeah. Hey, pass it, okay?

Ulrich: Oh, yeah, there you go. Here’s the bottle, too.

Skeet: Thank you.

Ulrich: Oh, yeah, I need to put another log on the fire.

Skeet: You’re going to shit on the fire?

Ulrich: Probably later. Amazing how you know stuff like that.

Skeet: Whoa, that’s a big branch man. You gotta arrange that shit, okay?

Ulrich: Hey, I grew up on a ranch. I know about building fires.

Skeet: Yeah, I know. I heard all about it from my cousin. She’s a mute.

Ulrich: Huh, so she communicates like a mime?

Skeet: Cave drawings.

Ulrich: That’s inconvenient.

Skeet: Not for her. She has a gift.

Ulrich: I like to give. It’s a thing.

Skeet: It’s good of you. I’m glad.

Ulrich: I believe in giving people a leg up so they can work and make a living.

Skeet: You like to put your feet up while other people work?

Ulrich: Sure, who doesn’t? It’s about creating jobs.

Skeet: I’m glad. You know that guy, Donald Trump?

Ulrich: Not personally. Know he wears a deer hide on his head. Don’t know why, but I don’t judge people for things like that. He’s got a lot of money and that’s what counts.

Skeet: Yeah, he’s rich. Something to be said for that.

Ulrich: More than one thing even.

Skeet: You’ll never get even.

Ulrich: Nah, don’t figure on it.

Skeet: Could be a lot worse for you if you didn’t have arms or legs.

Ulrich: Hey, you know, everyone’s got worries. The key thing is to not worry about others because then you’ll have less to worry about.

Skeet: In some strange way, you make sense. Here, have another toke.

Ulrich: Yeah, good. Thanks.

Skeet: You know that Donald Trump wants to build a wall along the Mexican border and kick the illegal immigrants out of the country.

Ulrich: Illegal? They’re under eighteen?

Skeet: Some of them.

Ulrich: You know, I don’t really consider sixteen “illegal.”

Skeet: Oh. One of my cousins is an immigrant. Fourteen years old. What about her?

Ulrich: Damn, that’s a tough one. Gets a little iffy around there. I hate to kick her out of the country for it—after all, she’s only two years away from being sixteen—but the line has to be drawn somewhere. But maybe the line should be ten, you know?

Skeet: I do a lot of lines.

Ulrich: Yeah, me, too, back in the day. You got any blow on you?

Skeet: No, man. I’ll call my friend tomorrow, though.

Ulrich: Yeah, let me sleep on it.

Skeet: Okay. Just to let you know, my friend’s illegal, too?

Ulrich: I don’t care how old he is if he can get me an eight ball.

Skeet: Cool. You’re a good guy. People make you out to be an asshole, but you’re cool.

Ulrich: I know. People like me.

Skeet: Except for the ones who don’t.

Ulrich: Yeah, there’s them. You can do some of things some the time, but not all of the things none of the time.

Skeet: Give me back that joint, man.

Ulrich: Oh, yeah. Sorry.

Skeet: No problem. I like that you’re cool with illegal immigrants.

Ulrich: As long as they’re hot, I don’t care.

Skeet: Was Consuela illegal?

Ulrich: No, she was in her thirties.

Skeet: Did you ever bang her?

Ulrich: She was my first.

Skeet: Wow, man, that’s crazy.

Ulrich: Yeah. She was a screamer.

Skeet: Oh, yeah?

Ulrich: Yup. She didn’t like being held down like that. She got over it, though.

Skeet: How do you know?

Ulrich: Because she stopped screaming after the third time.

Skeet: That reminds me of the difference between love and hate.

Ulrich: Funny, it reminds me of how much I want stuff I don’t have

Skeet: It’s like that saying, “I think therefore I want a donut.”

Ulrich: Yeah, and the other one: “I am therefore I eat a donut.”

Skeet: The more that I think about it, it’s like a big steak floating around in the sky, like a lonely steak that got separated from a flock of flying steaks migrating from Texas that typically stop to mate on the Missouri River somewhere in South Dakota before flying onward to Canada to give birth to veal cutlets on a pristine natural lake that’s never been seen by human beings. That’s the type of purity that it has, the purity of a steak untainted by humanity, a wild steak so unfamiliar with humans that it will fly within easy reach without believing it’s in any danger of being eaten—and I am going to eat that motherfucker!

Ulrich: Yeah, that sounds good, like eating popcorn that’s been buttered in the sun. Corona corn.

Skeet: That’s like eating alcohol off of a cob.

Ulrich: Or like dropping a deuce on a baby in a crib.

Skeet: Never thought of it like that, but pretty close, almost close enough to smell the dooky on the baby’s breath.

Ulrich: You know how babies sleep?

Skeet: Sure.

Ulrich: Really? Is it like adults sleeping?

Skeet: More like a turtle crouching, to be honest.

Ulrich: Honesty is the best policy.

Skeet: Not if it’s an insurance policy.

Ulrich: That’s true. Reminds me of a cold Montana winter.

Skeet: Or nude sunbathing in Central Park.

Ulrich: I met a naked woman in Montana. She peppered my ass with buckshot.

Skeet: Why?

Ulrich: I think she wanted to see what would happen.

Skeet: Did she?

Ulrich: I don’t know, I passed out.

Skeet: Shit, that’s too bad. Sucks not knowing.

Ulrich: The more you know, the less you don’t.

Skeet: There’s something in that for everyone.

Ulrich: Every child should learn that.

Skeet: In a perfect world …

Ulrich: What?

Skeet: Huh?

Ulrich: What would happen in a perfect world?

Skeet: Probably be a little bit like Houston.

Ulrich: Houston?

Skeet: Sure, if you’re a Texan.

Ulrich: That’s somethin’. The less you know, the more you don’t.

Skeet: That’s like the same thing, but not quite different.

Ulrich: Sometimes you have to give yourself a chance to take a nap.

Skeet: Especially when you can’t.

Ulrich: Never too old to pick things up and put them back down.

Skeet: Like a pancake without syrup.

Ulrich: Or green without washing.

Skeet: There’s been very little speculation about how that could happen.

Ulrich: You can say that again, but I hope you never do.

Skeet: Maybe if you rubbed my feet more often.

Ulrich: That’s one way to look at it, but I’d prefer to watch a donkey fuck a pig.

Skeet: I’ve seen that a number of times. Never gets old.

Ulrich: It’s like a beautiful sunset—you want it to last forever, but it ends in a matter of minutes.

Skeet: If a sunset had a smell it would be like an armpit that hasn’t been washed for a week.

Ulrich: Now that’s poetry, Walt Whitman style.

Skeet: I’m radically against poetry. Makes me think about sheep even when it’s about something else.

Ulrich: I’m proud of you.

Skeet: Painters I got no problem with.

Ulrich: Course not. Dogs playing poker? Fucking genius.

Skeet: Anything painted on velvet is good.

Ulrich: Except for my mother’s vagina.

Skeet: I disagree.

Ulrich: You can dream, but you still have to eat hamburger.

Skeet: Little known fact: vegans eat hamburger.

Ulrich: I did not know that.

Skeet: It’s the exception that proves the rule.

Ulrich: I’m all for breaking rules.

Skeet: Yes and no. I’m a fascist anarchist.

Ulrich: You’re living a lie.

Skeet: And the truth.

Ulrich: I guess you can have it both ways.

Skeet: Gandhi did, too. He was a peace fascist.

Ulrich: I’m naturally peaceful, but I’ve been working hard to become more violent.

Ulrich: It’s better if you earn it. You’ll appreciate it more.

Skeet: That’s how it all is, isn’t it?

Ulrich: Not according to Justin Bieber.

Skeet: I only listen to people who talk with their mouths closed.

Ulrich: That’s wisdom right there. Lepers could learn so much if they just took a break from suffering all the time. Like, every time I think of you, I feel like I should wipe my ass and go to bed, but then I remember how much more food is left in the fridge and all I can do is cry.

Skeet: That happens to a lot of people. One time a guy told me not to get up in his business and I told him I wasn’t a capitalist. He shook my hand and told me to walk a mile in his shoes, but he wanted me to do it while he was still wearing them. I had to break his fingers just to get him to shut up.

Ulrich: I wish violence came that easily to me.

Skeet: Keep working on it. Cheaters never fail.

Ulrich: It’s not for you to tell me.

Skeet: It’s not for you to tell me it’s not for me to tell you.

Ulrich: Oh, we’re in complete agreement about that!

Skeet: Oh, really? You’re one those? I had no idea.

Ulrich: I would be ashamed if I wasn’t so confused … but maybe not. I don’t know.

Skeet: You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.

Ulrich: That’s not the way I make decisions.

Skeet: Do you climb trees?

Ulrich: If I need to find something.

Skeet: That’s an exciting dilemma.

Ulrich: It is, isn’t it? I don’t know why I didn’t see it that way before. My God! I’ve been so wrapped up in my own little world that I forgot you’re here with me right now! Wow!

Skeet: That’s weird, because I assumed you were aware that you were talking to yourself.

Ulrich: No, not at all! It was just, like, all the sudden, there you were and I was like, wow, I’m talking to you and I’ve been talking to you this whole time even though I thought I was talking to you while I was talking to you but in a way that blinded me from realizing it.

Skeet: You need to kneel down and pray about this.

Ulrich: Yeah, but first I want to bite my nails and watch you blink your eyes.

Skeet: That’s going to be problematic because I have no plans to turn and face you.

Ulrich: It’s been strange talking to the back of your head.

Skeet: I would think you would be used to it by now.

Ulrich: No.

Skeet: Keep practicing.

Ulrich: Like I have a choice in the matter.

Skeet: Maybe you should climb a tree.

Ulrich: Good idea, I haven’t been able to find my bowling ball.

Skeet: Now you’re getting it.

Ulrich: Whew, thank you. I would have been paralyzed by fear if you hadn’t said that.

Skeet: The least I could do.

Ulrich: It would be nice if you would do a little more sometimes.

Skeet: I only ever do the least.

Ulrich: That’s a dead man’s axiom.

Skeet: No, it’s an open-coffin mind.

Ulrich: Hmmm …

Skeet: Yes.

Ulrich: Ah.

Skeet: Uh huh.

Ulrich: Phew!

Skeet: Finally!

Ulrich: Wow.

Skeet: Incredible.

Ulrich: It just keeps going, doesn’t it?

Skeet: I can’t believe it’s happening like this.

Ulrich: The gods are smiling on us.

Skeet: Better than that time they pissed on us.

Ulrich: I remember that like it never happened! That was last year right?

Skeet: Or Tuesday.

Ulrich: That reminds me, do you burn calendars?

Skeet: For breakfast, sure.

Ulrich: Okay, because I wanted to ask you when you were going to go to the bathroom.

Skeet: I have not been to the bathroom in years and I have no plans to go there any time soon.

Ulrich: You don’t get many vacation days, do you?

Skeet: I have plenty of those, but not enough reasons to use them.

Ulrich: It sucks when the only things you have are those you need.

Skeet: Unfortunately, I have that problem.

Ulrich: You’re doing it again.

Skeet: What?

Ulrich: Saying everything I want you to say before I want you to say it!

Skeet: Is that what’s going on?

Ulrich: No! Damnit!

Skeet: It’s not like I live here.

Ulrich: You’re from Nebraska?

Skeet: Did you tell me to understand that? Because I did.

Ulrich: That’s the first time that ever worked.

Skeet: It’ll only happen more often now.

Ulrich: Shit.

Ulrich: It’s your own fault.

Skeet: How do you figure?

Ulrich: I pay someone to do it.

Skeet: I didn’t think you had that kind of money.

Ulrich: I don’t. I give her alarm clocks. My brother makes them. He’s a rodent.

Skeet: Oh, no wonder you’re so tall. I thought I was just really jaded, but you’ve shown me more about how I can attach sounds to smells than any other person I’ve ever needed.

Ulrich: Wow, I’m taken aback. It’s the first time for me.

Skeet: You lost your virginity to me?

Ulrich: Why do you ask?

Skeet: I’m trying to make you feel unimportant.

Ulrich: I can appreciate how much courage it took for you to say that.

Skeet: It was nothing.

Ulrich: Now you’re just being adorable.

Skeet: I was wondering when you would notice.

Ulrich: I don’t like to dwell on things.

Skeet: I’ll do it for you from now on. Just tell me how you want it to be done and I’ll try my best. It’s usually better if you call late in the afternoon because I typically avoid making plans until the last minute. That’s how I get the hours I need to count the seconds I breathe.

Ulrich: I’m more of a big picture kind of guy.

Skeet: Always looking for an easy way out.

Ulrich: If you mean that it’s the little things that matter, then yes.

Skeet: I focused my energy in such a way that I could not have predicted that interpretation.

Ulrich: If you only look up then you’ll always fall down.

Skeet: Opposites attract, right?

Ulrich: Magnetic poles, of course.

Skeet: I was thinking about the origins of the universe, now that you mention it.

Ulrich: I’m pretty sure it was the sneeze of a pot-bellied pig.

Skeet: Looked more like a platypus to me.

Ulrich: You were looking up, weren’t you?

Skeet: Yes, but my head was facing down.

Ulrich: So you saw straight ahead?

Skeet: No, I saw the back of yours.

Ulrich: Oh.

My Dinner with Bush

Me: Did you know that race doesn’t exist?

Bush: NASCAR doesn’t exist?

Me: No. Well, yeah, NASCAR exists, but I mean races of people.

Bush: I don’t understand. I thought you were Mexican.

Me: No.

Bush: But we’re at a Mexican restaurant.

Me: True, but so are you and you’re not Mexican.

Bush: Hell, I never thought of it that way. You got me there. Huh, we’re eating Mexican and neither one of us is Mexican. That’s just weird.

Me: To you, undoubtedly. But you know, even if I was Mexican the word doesn’t describe a race. There are no words that describe races of people because there aren’t races of people. All human beings are the same species, the same “race.” “Mexican” is a description of nationality and, to an extent, culture. Being a Mexican-American just means that a person used to be a citizen of Mexico but is now a U.S. citizen or that person’s parents, grandparents, or great-grandparents, et cetera, had been citizens of Mexico.

Bush: You’re talking gibberish, right? Some type of pig Latin or something, cause not a word out of your mouth made sense to me.

Me: Part of that might be because we’ve been inundated with the ideas that there are races of people. It’s like believing in leprechauns or that a virgin was impregnated by God.

Bush: I might have seen a leprechaun when I was doing blow or getting’ my drink on, but since I’ve been dry that doesn’t happen no more. And that thing about the virgin, that’s just crazy.

Me: I thought you were Christian?

Bush: Yup, sure as spitfire.

Me: But you don’t believe that Mary was impregnated by God and gave birth to Jesus?

Bush: Heh heh, I don’t know what Bible you were reading, but I ain’t come across anything batshit like that. Heh, pretty good story, though. They should make a movie. I’d watch it. Good entertainment.

Me: You know what, never mind. I was just trying to point out that believing in race is something that was spread generations ago and it’s still around even though the concept has mutated a bit.

Bush: There are mutants, too? They like mongoloids? Mole people?

Me: Maybe I can describe it in a different way. Race is an idea that has nothing to do with reality.

Bush: What about African-Americans, though. Ain’t them a race?

Me: No, the term just describes the continent where the ancestors of some Americans used to live before they were enslaved and forced to come to America. There are some African-Americans who chose to come to the United States freely much later, though, and still do today.

Bush: I can’t tell if you’re making things up or not. I mean, I can barely follow what you’re sayin’ and now I’m wonderin’ what’s the difference between African-Americans and black people?

Me: It’s complicated. African-American is a political designation whereas calling a person “black” is a reference to that person’s skin color. The term is sometimes considered offensive, but that’s a really complicated issue that’s fraught with danger. It’s one of the reasons most people don’t like to talk about race. Even folks with good intentions can say the wrong thing at the wrong time in the wrong setting and it can cause a shit-storm.

Bush: I know all about shit-storms. Hell, I was in a shit-storm for eight years as president.

Me: I remember.

Bush: Now, from what you’re saying, I could get in trouble talking about race even though you’re sayin’ there ain’t no such thing as race?

Me: That’s right.

Bush: Damn, that’s scary. But you know, I was thinking about calling people black because of their skin color, but not all black people have black skin.

Me: Um, well, I would phrase that differently, but I understand what you’re trying to say.

Bush: So why do they call people without black skin “black people”?

Me: That’s way too complicated and I have no idea how to explain the issue to you.

Bush: Well, it just seems wrong.

Me: Yes, it’s a serious ethical issue.

Bush: I don’t know nothin’ about that. I just think it’s wrong to call someone black if they have brown skin. Just makes things confusing. Like, there’s this one woman I met, people told me she was black, but when I met her I noticed her skin was brown with some sort of yellow mixed in. I like that skin color, brownish yellow. I find it very appealing. I also like smooth skin, buttery. Just feels good to touch it.

Me: Okay. That’s your issue.

Bush: True enough. The thing is, though, if what you’re saying is true about race and nationality, then German-Americans are just Americans who came from Germany. I thought they were part of that Aryan race thing, the whole World War II thing. The Nazis, you know, the Nazis. Not as bad as people think. My granpapi, Prescott, he did some business with them before the war. Good business for him. Made some money. Can’t be all bad if they make money.

Me: Look, the whole Nazi thing is part of the problem, especially when it comes to race, okay? But I don’t want to get into that. The point is that “German” is a nationality and implies a spectrum of subcultures, not just Nazis or the concept of an Aryan race. German-Americans are mostly Americans who had ancestors who immigrated from Germany or in what were considered Germanic lands.

Bush: Germanic lands?

Me: Germany wasn’t a country until the 1800s.

Bush: Bullshit!

Me: No, it’s true. The land that is part of the sovereign nation of Germany wasn’t always called Germany and even as “Germany” the country has gone through many political identities, from dictatorships to republics.

Bush: That doesn’t make any sense at all.

Me: Not to you, no, but it’s true.

Bush: Look, we’re gonna have to disagree to agree on this one. I’m still trying to figure out this race deal you got going. Are Asian-Americans like the African-Americans, just from another continent?

Me: Close enough, sure.

Bush: What about the Jewish-Americans and Muslim-Americans?

Me: They signify religious identification and cultural heritage as well as citizenship.

Bush: Well, then what’s all this talk about racism?

Me: Again, it’s complicated. It would be more accurate to say that there is prejudice and bigotry based on perceptions of the meanings of skin color, religion, nationality, culture, and continental origins.

Bush: I don’t understand a word you just said.

Me: You’re not alone.

Bush: I know. You’re right in front of me. When are we gonna eat? My brain’s starting to hurt.

Me: I understand. It often hurts to exercise the muscles that have been neglected most.

Bush: You’re right about that. I did a lat workout a week ago. Hadn’t been working on them for at least a year. Sore as hell the next day.

Me: If that’s the case, you may have a headache tomorrow.

Bush: That’s not unusual.

Me: I believe you.

Bush: Okay, is there anything else you needed to talk about before we eat?

Me: No, we can eat while we talk.

Bush: That’s more like it. You know, speaking of race, why aren’t I considered a Christian-American?

Me: That’s an exceptionally insightful question.

Bush: I have no idea if that’s good or bad.

Me: It’s good. The answer to your question is complex. We’d finish this meal before I even got started. The answer is historical, social, political, and economic.

Bush: It’s like you’re a teacher or somethin’. Look, I been to school. No reason to bring up history, passed that class. Got a “C.” Good enough to graduate from Yale so I think I know what’s what.

Me: Yeah, you’re damn near a genius by American standards.

Bush: I appreciate that, but let’s get back to the point. I got Jesus in my heart so why ain’t I a Christian-American?

Me: Well, you can call yourself that, no problem there. As far as a political designation, it doesn’t formally exist. It doesn’t exist in the same way that “English-speaking American” doesn’t exist as a politically-recognized identity.

Bush: Okay, that’s just wrong. I mean, there are mostly English-speaking Americans in America, but none of them are “English-speaking American”? I’m bilingual, by the way, so technically I’m an English-Spanish-speaking American. Maybe a “Spanglerican.” If that isn’t already a word, well, it should be.

Me: I don’t know what to say other than that isn’t a word and that there are no language-based identities recognized by the U.S. government.

Bush: Damn, wish I’d known all of this when I was president. Probably could have done something about this stuff.

Me: Yeah, you could have done a lot, but you didn’t.

Bush: I got caught up in that whole Iraq thing. Got distracted from other issues. I never got around to race.

Me: Actually, you caused quite a stir after Hurricane Katrina.

Bush: Oh, hell, was that what that was all about? I never understood a bit of what was going on.

Me: That was apparent to nearly everyone.

Bush: You know, it’s funny that there Obamer fella didn’t do nothing about this stuff, either. I mean, he’s what you call an African-American as far as I know. Born in Africa, moved to the United States, became president. Hell of a story. Proves anything can happen. But if this race business is as big a deal as you say, I would think an African-American would do something about it.

Me: I thought he would, too. No such luck.

Bush: Now that I think about it, he’s another one of them African-Americans who isn’t really black. He’s brown, but sort of a chalky brown.

Me: I’m not going to touch that one.

Bush: You should. His face is kind of pock-marked, too, like maybe he had acne. Black people, even them that are actually brown and ashy, get acne, too. Not a lot of people know that. Need some education on that one, too. Acne’s no joke. Knew a kid in school with acne and we made fun of him nearly every day. Killed himself before he graduated. Acne can do that, drive a person to suicide. It’s sad. I shoulda addressed that one, too, but that damn Katrina thing got me bogged down. Things happen you don’t expect. Gotta roll with punches, bob and weave, bob and weave.

Me: Fascinating. I’m not sure where you’re going with this, but okay.

Bush: Well, the thing is, people think about things and sometimes I’m people so I do it, too.

Me: Your thoughts are terrifyingly broken.

Bush: When things need fixin’, I fix ‘em. Did it in Iraq, did it in Afghanistan, did it with Putin, did it with Katrina, did it with America, did it with my wife, did it with Jesus. That’s how I do things—I do ‘em.

Me: I’m going to ignore everything you just said and drink my margarita.

Bush: Now you’re talkin’. I mean, now you’re not talkin’. I’m not sure that sayin’ works here.

Me: Just eat your enchilada.

Bush: Okay. Good talk. We should do this again some time.

Me: *sigh*

The tree is over there

The tree is over there.

As I was reading about desire theory and its problems, I began to see a much larger problem with language in general, how it shapes our perspectives and thus how we interpret words such as desire and even how we perceive our desires.

When I say "the tree is over there," you may nonconsciously accept this as meaning the lone tree you see on the hill. But if there are many trees you may ask, "Which tree?" And I may say, the tree with yellow leaves. If there is only one tree with yellow leaves, then you may easily understand which tree I am referring to that is "over there." If not ... then on and on we go.

During this convoluted conversation, what goes unrecognized is the hidden statement that is implied when I say "the tree is over there." A more adequate statement would be "In reference to my position, the tree is over there." If I am standing to the south of the tree then the tree is to the north of me. If I am standing to the north of the tree then the tree is to the south of me.

Why is this important? The fact that we can use language such as "The tree is over there" without clarifying that "the tree is over there in relation to my position" hides each one of us as essential subjects when referring to objects. Objects are never independent of us when we use language to refer to them. Objects only exist independently of me when I do not notice them and they only exist independent of us when I do not speak of them to you. I create our relationship to "the tree over there" by uttering that the tree is over there. Before uttering the statement, the tree may have existed for me over there in relation to me and perhaps you also noticed the tree over there in relation to you, but through my statement to you, the "tree over there" has become over there in relation to us. Before there was notice or speech, there was just a tree; even more truthfully, there was whatever was without name or reference of any sort.

Another point about language before I go on: If I say "the tree is over there" and there are many trees spread out before us you may look at me to see where I am looking and infer that I am speaking of the tree in what you perceive as my line of sight. You learned more about the tree I was referring to in relation to me through sensory observation. But even when it came to my statement, you observed, without noticing, through sound, by hearing. Again, your senses were critical; your senses enabled you to detect the language I was using and, throughout your life, your senses enabled you to develop your understandings of language in the ways that you have even if you don't know how that has happened specifically or perhaps even generally. It is almost certain, from my perspective, that you couldn't use your memory to go back and learn about the relationship between your senses and language in terms of how the idiosyncratic development of your understanding of language was shaped by your sensations.

One reason this is important is because it partially explains why we are a mystery to ourselves -- always. Neuroscience, and science in general, will never be able to provide the information we need for us to be able to specifically track how our senses shape our language development and understanding. This is just one thing science--and philosophy or any other type of thought or observation--will never be able to discover. It will always remain a mystery even if we can infer (or discover scientifically) that there is definitively a relationship between sensation and language development. In fact, I am making a scientific claim when I say that there is a relationship between sensation and language development and I think that I demonstrated, in a rudimentary way, one example (hearing words spoken).

These are fresh thoughts written after having first thought them (in this way, this is a first draft and if I were to develop it I would rewrite and edit). This, in itself, provides another insight: language thought differs from language written ... and language spoken. All three means (and Braille and sign language if we include those) differ from one another. The words I am writing are not the same as those I thought--the ideas are disjointed compared to the fluidity of my internal thought. Even though I am using English in my thought as well as my writing, I am more proficient as a thinker than as a writer, more proficient as a speaker of monologues than within dialogues (depending on the subject and the other person speaking).

Why is this important? It tells us something we take for granted and rarely, if ever, think about. It gives us an understanding of why certain speakers and writers may not be as dense or confused in their thought as they appear to be in writing and speech. It may take one person a day to write succinctly what another can write in an hour. We may call that "intelligence," this difference in the amount of time it takes in writing about the same subject succinctly. If we did use "intelligence" to describe this phenomenon then we would be narrowing "intelligence" dramatically. If we observed that the same person who was "dumb" by our writing standards in relation to a subject we might be baffled that the same person could describe in a matter of minutes what it took him or her days to write whereas the person writing well in an hour may never be able to communicate as clearly in dialogue with others. With that new information we discover that what we had called "intelligence" was contextually limited and described very little about each person's capabilities using different forms of communication. This underlies one of the reasons written, standardized tests are so radically biased and distorted and result in so many who may have been capable of doing so much being denied opportunities from a young age, thus shaping their lives forever (but that's another subject).

Why is that important? Rather than answering directly, think about what I might mean when I say "the tree is over there." Writing it is one thing, but if I use italics to create inflection, I radically change the meaning: "The tree is over there" versus "The tree is over there." What if I meant, without saying, that the tree is an evergreen and I had been born in New York City, lived there until forty, never having ventured out of the city until traveling to Portland, by plane, and I was picked up at the airport at night and driven to your house and in the morning I walked out on the porch where you were sitting and I looked out, saw an evergreen, and looked over at you, with your confused, quizzical look, and blurted out, "the tree is over there." If you had no context that I had only ever seen evergreens in magazines and that I had always wondered what it would be like to see that tree then you would think little of it other than, perhaps, "He is weird" before saying, "Yup, the tree is over there, Mike," then returning to your newspaper. 

In that sense, "the tree is over there" communicates almost nothing about what I really mean and perhaps I never thought to explain because I had only ever lived in New York and, seeing an evergreen for the first time, it seemed to me that it should be as remarkable to everyone else as it is to me. In that sense, I would be childlike. Why do people think babies are so wonderful? I don't know why others do, but the reason I think they are extraordinary is because by observing them I am able to see their eyes widen the first time they see a jack in the box. I witness from them a wonder I no longer experience when seeing a jack in the box. Why? Because of experience--I’ve witnessed hundreds or thousands of times what the infant has witnessed once. We say, "The infant can't understand because the brain hasn't developed yet." We imagine, in some ways, often because of psychology nowadays, that brains develop in stages that roughly correspond with ages. We assume, because of this, that this is largely because of genetics. While genetics may play a role, a child's brain will develop differently in significant ways if he has been exposed to the woods thousands of times before the age of seven by living in a rural environment in Montana compared to the child who lives in Manhattan and never leaves the city--and only once visits Central Park. In terms of certain measures by psychologists, their sexual development may be the same, their potty training may have been the same, but their attachment development or underdevelopment may be quite different if the child in the rural environment spends a lot of time alone tromping through the woods while the city boy is always accompanied by a parent or adult outside the apartment. I can't say with certainty, but there will be differences in the way the world is perceived. I can say with near certainty, though.

Again, how does this relate to language, written or spoken or thought? The child tromping through the woods may have very little language development compared to the highly socialized boy in the city. Perhaps while tromping through the woods the rural boy thinks a lot in language and thus develops a rich internal language in relation to his environment and his self in that environment. But maybe not, maybe there is so much visual, auditory, olfactory, and tactile sensation that most of the child's time is spent engaging and interacting with the environment in ways in which language would be a hindrance rather than an aid.

Throw those two boys in school at age 7 and give them standardized tests and we shouldn't be surprised to find that the city boy who reads a lot and spends a lot of time in dialog with adults and other kids at day care has significantly better language development. On the other hand, that child has difficulty being alone. The rural kid, hampered by poor language development and underdeveloped social skills, struggles in the social environment of school as well as the strictures of imposed structure. The rural child had experienced and developed authentic autonomy (enabled by parents providing life's necessities). But the woods were his playground and he was a master in that domain, alive and free. The city boy might be terrified if alone in those same woods whereas he is right at home in the structured environment of school that is dominantly language based. 

Now, in all of these ways, desire theory may be partially correct in saying that everyone will have different desires and objective theories of value couldn't possibly say that the city boy and the rural boy desire the same things (except maybe sex). The city boy, while in class, desires to go back to the woods to explore and interact "alone" (only "alone" in the sense of no other people; hardly "alone" when it comes to the diversity of extraordinary sensory stimuli with no limits imposed by society in terms of where he can go, what he can touch, how loud he can shout, how deep a hole he can dig, how high a tree he can climb). The city boy, left in the woods, desires to go back to his parents in their apartment, to his day care with his friends, to school to read or work on fun language problems.

Desire, then, is defined by what is lacked "within" a person even though what is desired exists "outside" a person. Whether an environment, object, or outcome, what is desired cannot be resolved from within. Desire, as such, is best explored through subject-object relations, if "objects" can include environments and milestones (obtaining a law degree) and other persons (getting married, having a baby). To obtain these things, as desire theory explains, knowledge of what is wanted and knowledge of how to obtain are essentials.

However, desire theory does not provide a methodology for learning what is wanted or how to obtain what is wanted. The first seems less problematic than the latter. Maybe, maybe not. The first certainly must be known in order to ascertain what is needed to acquire the latter. For the rural boy, to keep it simple, what is desired is being in the woods. The problem for the boy is school. Still, the boy may get what he wants after school hours. But if the boy's parents move to a city that is not near any woods, the boy has no way to attain what is desired even though he knows what is desired. His only options are to run away from home (unlikely at a young age) or bide his time until he is old enough to set out on his own. Even then, he will need to find means to provide for his survival needs even if he does not want to have to do that.

The city boy, though, may not know what he wants other than to be with other people and to engage in language. He may not know what he wants because he always has what he wants--being with his parents, being in day care, being in school, reading, having conversations. However, when he becomes an adult, it may be much more difficult to satisfy those desires if he does not know how to obtain the same things as an adult (provided those are still his desires). Having his parents around may not be an option if they do not want him living with them. More radically, his parents may die while he is in his early twenties, denying him of a want forever unless he finds a way to replace them (or separates himself from that desire--need? The question of what is a need versus what is a desire becomes tricky; too much to address here). Finding a structured environment, in the U.S., shouldn't be a problem, but even college may prove to have too loose of a structure for him. If he desires reading and conversing, he may want to teach since that will provide him a way of doing those things in some capacity. However, he may find that teaching, even at a high school or college level, does not involve the dialogue he prefers which is one of being equals or one who is a follower/learner (being talked to by adults as authorities). Maybe a cubicle job where someone tells him what to do and he can converse with coworkers and then, after work, other friends. Maybe.

However, does satisfying these desires lead to fulfillment? Will what is fulfilling as a child, given the relative paucity of experiences, satisfy as an adult, especially into middle age and beyond? This is where desire theory's absence of methodologies to discovering what is wanted fail people. Then there is the world that exists, with its political, legal, economic, and social structures. If desires exist that cannot be satisfied within the structures and systems of the world then desire theory provides nothing of help since there can be no way to obtain a way to satisfy desires (never mind that a method for finding out how to obtain the knowledge necessary for the acquisition of what is desired is lacking).

There is also the problem of being disappointed by getting what one thought he or she wanted--what is discovered is that the person was wrong about what he or she desired. It did not fulfill what was lacking within. As persons become more and more complex as they develop through sensory experience and thought throughout life, desires become more and more complex, interrelated, and difficult to identify. There is also the influence of culture (and advertising and peer pressure and …) persuading individuals that "this" or "that" will satisfy them. If one discovers that the word is working against the discovery of the environments, objects, accomplishments, and conditions that satisfy that which is felt as lacking within a person then a person may perceive the world as an enemy, certainly as untrustworthy.

The further we go down the rabbit hole the more desire theory fails to provide any semblance of help to human beings. In the last case, wanting to be able to trust the world may occur; but with knowledge of the world, the person wanting this becomes trapped, knowing that the desire will never be satisfied. The idea of developing new desires seems simple, but as with the rural boy and the city boy, this seems not only difficult, but perhaps impossible. How can the rural boy "learn" or convince himself to desire being in school? How can the city boy learn or convince himself to desire unstructured uncertainty in an unfamiliar environment? There is even the added problem that if parents wanted to prepare children to desire only what is possible in the world they would need the world to remain relatively static over the course of their children’s lives. This may have worked for a Native American tribe in 968 A.D. (even though they never would have used such a date as "968 A.D."). It may have even worked to some extent for peasants in feudal Europe. But now? We don't even know what the technology will be next year let alone if a new wave of job types disappears from the American landscape (and I'm limiting myself to an American perspective because it becomes too complicated to account for a Pakistani family, a Brazilian family, and a Russian family).

Being brought up in the 1970s, it appeared that, if I couldn't or didn't want to go to college, I could get a factory job. But throughout the 1980s and 1990s those jobs all moved to Mexico or overseas, especially to China in the 1990s and 2000s. Advancements in technology were also a critical factor. The explosion of the Internet in the mid-to-late 1990s meant that individuals who weren't prepared for computer-related jobs or even jobs that were indirectly computer-related were displaced--and also that the desires that they, respectively, had developed may not have been achievable any longer. War, social upheaval, economic insecurity, rapid technological change, all of these factors prevent parents from being able to reliably prepare children to satisfy desires into adulthood. Desire theory does not account for reality, not just because it doesn't provide methods for identifying desires and obtaining means to satisfy them, but because it views desire primarily through a subject-only context. As I mentioned earlier, desire is a subject/object endeavor--more accurately, it may be an object/subject relationship.

What does that mean? That means that agency does not exist in the sense that desire theory imagines it does. Agency is contextual in the world; certain levels of power and wealth are required for a broader spectrum of agency. Money and power may not be able to automatically provide happiness or satisfy desires, but they certainly provide a much greater means for both identifying desires and obtaining that which satisfies desires. This last bit about agency is a crucial factor, as significant as sensation and language. The only way in which sensory experience and language development and usage can aid anyone is if there is also the opportunity to choose. Desire theory fails on all of these fronts: it does not provide an understanding of how language changes perspectives of the world (and, thus, of desires), how sensations create a subject/object relationship that shared language relies upon, or how the social contexts of the world (let alone the physical) dictate the limitations of agency (which determine how sensory experience relates to language). The more complex our understanding of the world is (provided it is more reliable and provides greater understandings and, thus, opportunities than a simpler understanding) the more obvious it becomes that desire theory fails miserably.

Amsterdam Eighty-Six: Evolution

I woke up early feeling refreshed, not exactly sure how long I had slept. The clock had read quarter to lavender when I went to sleep. I slid out of bed, brushed my teeth, showered, and went out for lunch, riding my bike to Taksteeg just off Rokin to Gartine, a café I had heard served delicious breakfasts and lunches. I ate steamed eggs with duck prosciutto and truffles and became immensely happy.

I was itching to explore again, but I knew I could finish the index if I went back to my apartment. When I arrived, I saw the painting and was taken aback. I liked it … and I hated it. I liked some of it, but didn’t like all of it. The light of day changed everything. On the other hand, I found I liked some areas I hadn’t liked at all the night before. I also wondered how much shrooming had impacted the areas of the painting that had tickled me.

There was no question that the painting was made for shrooming eyes and a shrooming mind. Nevertheless, there was no focal point and I found that my eyes couldn’t stop roaming, trying to find the beginning, searching for the end. In that sense, nothing had changed. I saw the areas that needed work. Most of them were obvious whether shrooming or not simply because they hadn’t received caring attention. After twenty minutes of staring at it, I made myself turn on my MacBook and get to work.

I finished indexing around five o’clock, editing until six-thirty. I sent a copy of the index and an invoice to the managing editor then sat back to marvel that all of my work responsibilities were finished. I had received an email from a different publisher offering two new indexes, but both had long schedules. I wouldn’t need to complete either one of them until the middle of May. I was completely free the rest of my stay. I leaned back in my chair wondering just how much trouble I could get into over the next month.

I went to the couch and loaded a bowl of Arjan’s Ultra #1, taking a couple hits before opening the window to have a cigarette. The weather had been clear and calm earlier in the day, a smattering of sunshine between the clouds. Now, though, the wind had picked up and the air had a bite to it. I saw walkers bundled up, bracing against the wind and the light but pelting rain. The cars beeping past seemed angry. Nothing fun existed out the window. My mood sunk as I watched. I had been looking forward to going out to celebrate. Now I wasn’t so sure.

I figured, though, that if I wasn’t going to go out that I should weather the storm and pick up some shrooms from Conscious Dreams on Kerkstraat. The ride there and back would not be fun, but … what the fuck else was I going to do? I bundled in rain gear the best I could, went out and unlocked my bike, questioning my myself, but ultimately made my way through the nasty downpour. I arrived soaked, walked into an empty shop, ordered a dose of McKennaii and another of Thai, barely cognizant enough to enjoy the beauty of the woman behind the counter. She kindly wished me well outside in the rain and I waved a hand to acknowledge her well-meaning but powerless wish.

By the time I returned to my apartment, I was so soaked I felt twenty pounds heavier. I struggled to squeeze my bike into the rack and painstakingly locked it before slogging inside, carrying myself up the stairs through force of will, wondering why I had bothered. I no longer felt like shrooming. Nevertheless, after I undressed and hung up my clothes to dry, I ate the dose of Thai and half the dose of McKennai before taking a shower to warm up. As I was drying off I remembered the woman from the previous night and ran naked to the coffee table to look at my writing pad. “Shuim.” A café or bar of some sort. I went to the bedroom to dress well enough to go out, still not sure I would. I had to see where it was or if I could even locate it.

I turned on my computer and searched for “Shuim Amsterdam.” Fortunately, the search engine was forgiving and led me to a bar called “Schuim” on Spuistraat. Fuck, it was almost all the way to Raadhuisstraat. No way could I bike there. A cab? Yeah, a cab. That was the right idea. It was after eight and I had written down eleven, the time she had mentioned she might be there. Fuck it, may as well show up early. I rifled through my phone contacts to find the number for a taxi service in Amsterdam. I came across Vanessa’s number. Fuck, Vanessa. I hadn’t thought about her for what, a month, maybe six weeks? Seemed like a lifetime. I felt an urge to call her, to have her come by, bring some coke, go to Schuim, and, fuck, why not a threesome with a hot blonde around my age and Vanessa? Fuck, that sounded good to me. I shook off the impulse, but it nagged at me as I called for a taxi. I could always call her later, I rationalized. I was clearly affected by having finished the index, by having cleared my work schedule. I wanted to party, to really party. I had a toke from the bowl and lit a cigarette, not even bothering to open the window. Fuck, I was wired. I went to the bedroom and grabbed a few hundred Euros from my dresser drawer just in case I felt like getting some blow later. I could always call Chris, too. Maybe even Sophia for some Molly. Whatever.

I got a call when the cab arrived out front, threw on my jacket, and ran down the stairs. I hopped in the taxi and told the driver to take me to Schuim. He was a foreigner of nondescript origin; he communicated well enough to let me know he didn't know the place. I told him Spuistraat south of Raadhuisstraat. He nodded and drove to Vijzelstraat, cut to the north, and made his way. As we were driving along the Amstel I started to feel funny. The lights were excessively vibrant and … oh, fuck … I forgot about the shrooms! Well, this was going to be even more of an adventure than I anticipated. I could barely remember what the woman looked like except the she had long, straight white-blonde hair with dark roots. If she had changed her hair at all, style or dye, then I would never recognize her. The again, oh fucking well. I was beginning to fly and she seemed less and less important after viewing the neon lights glowing on the Amstel. I felt a powerful urge to call Vanessa, but I made myself focus on the lights. Later, maybe. See what happens first.

As the cabbie turned onto Spui I realized I another half dose of shrooms at home and I became giddy; more shrooms, the possibility of the blonde, of Vanessa, of blow? Oooh, I was looking at a fun night. I could even call Auriana and Ellie. The possibilities were endless! Too bad Sterre was in Berlin. Still, I could call her and see if she was around. I could call Daniel, too, maybe swing by Gollem and see if Andy was there—he seemed to always have fun drugs on him, and even if he didn’t pounding beers with him would be a blast. On top of all that was the possibility of meeting strangers who were every bit as interesting and fucking cool, wild, and welcoming as everyone else? 

The taxi pulled up outside Schuim, I paid him, and stepped out. The weather had calmed. Still a light rain, but no biting wind. No wind at all. So strange. The air was thick, leaning heavily on my body. I took off my coat as I walked under the awning among others who were smoking, all of them excessively good-looking and eclectically dressed. I had read just enough of the description of the café to know that it was supposedly “artsy,” sometimes featuring exhibits, but also DJs and other events, attracting high-end crowds on occasion. It seemed to have no rhyme or reason as far as what might be happening on a given night, entirely uncertain, always a mystery. What could be better?

As I sucked my smoke I overheard a conversation in Dutch, a few men and women standing outside the entrance. My trip was becoming fuller so it was refreshing to hear the affable sing-song of their voices. I noticed the way they were dressed, but couldn’t place it. Modish, perhaps, in a European sense. They appeared to be in their thirties, probably early thirties. Then again, their faces kept dripping flesh so I couldn’t be sure.

One thing I had learned through all of my experiences was how to intellectualize sensory extravagances in social situations. Having acquired this skill allowed me to appear somewhat normal, if eccentric, around otherwise “straight” people. More and more, I felt a thrill being able to trip heavily while maintaining social acumen. It felt weird, but it alleviated tensions and anxieties and, in a way, made me feel like a god. Who doesn’t like feeling invincible, impervious to detection or judgment? I certainly did, egomania be damned. The skittishness and heavy social anxiety of November had long past so I relished being in crowds, drifting among the unknown, embracing the weird that might come. What was the worst that could happen? Being shunned? Getting my ass kicked? Chased down the street by people with torches and pitchforks? Every one of those possibilities tickled my tummy and even made me hope for such happenings. During those moments, running from a lynch mob seemed exceedingly like the Running of the Bulls.

Because these stories I told myself were entirely true and I was, indeed, certain of that, I felt it necessary to make my intentions known. I waited for an opening and when the group of them fell silent I made my approach. The woman wearing a pink scarf made eye contact with me first so I directed my attention to her: “I don’t know exactly what sort of constellation this is, but I felt the need to let you know that something surprisingly important is likely to happen tonight. Forgive my English, but it’s far more comprehensible than my Dutch.”

One of the men, tall, suave, far too good-looking for anyone in his presence to do anything but adore him, smilingly asked me what I meant. “Look,” I said, “there are only a few things I know with certainty, but after speaking with a confidante earlier this evening, a man of sufficient grace if debatable taste, I became aware that I might meet a crew of distinguishable Dutch outside a café that may—or may not—possess a substantial allure.” The utterance of “allure” tasted like ripened grapes on my tongue. “This place—more specifically, you—have attracted my attention to a sufficient degree that I should be able to give voice to something more elegantly pretentious that even I, on any other night, might be repulsed by myself. Nevertheless, my friend, who is more of a wise nuisance than anything else, explained that this extravagance might win over a crowd of ‘beautiful people’ who might not otherwise glance in my direction. So, consider what I have said as an invitation to a night far more lovely than any of you may have previously anticipated. Whether or not that comes to pass, well, that’s up to you.”

I could feel myself witnessing while speaking. It had been a passionately vacuous plea; I had fallen in love with the tone and cadence of my own voice; I noticed, however, that the Dutch had not. They were looking at me expectantly—it appeared that way, anyway, though I began to wonder if they were trying to will me away from them. I could feel their negative energy, that was the only way I could think of it, and I decided, then and there, that I needed to get away from them. I said, “Pardon,” dipped my head, and walked between them to open the door and walk inside.

I had made a great escape. As I looked around inside, nearly bumping into a delicate little man dressed entirely in gold, including a top hat, I noticed what appeared to be paper mâché circular saucers on the ceiling, tan, the lights hidden within them, giving the room a soft glow. The floor was wooden, but not as hard-worn as they typically were in brown cafés. I walked past a pillar—there several in a row the length of the wide and long interior space—toward the bar. I wasn’t quite overwhelmed by sensory overload; in fact, the sights and sounds served to keep me sufficiently out of my head so that I could maintain. It was certainly early in the evening, that was evident by the immediate service I received from the Dutch brown beauty behind the bar, her hair curling and curling and curling, her eyes spectacularly blue, her waist pulled tight by a belt inches thick, her bodice, which I knew was the wrong word but wasn’t able to find the right one, was white and flowing. She spoke gutturally in the soft din of sounds racing around one another. It could have been Dutch, but it didn’t matter because I wouldn’t have been able to understand what she had said even if it had been English.

I replied, “Orval.” She shook her head no. Fuck. “Cold spring cocktail.” Apparently, she thought I was from another planet, but I realized she might not know the English name for the drink so I said, “Cognac, maple syrup, lemon juice,” and before I could finish she said, “Ja,” and went about mixing the drink. When she brought it to me, I realized I needed to pay. I pulled out my card, but as I was about to say “run a tab,” it occurred to me that I might not remember later. I put it away and pulled out a twenty Euro bill. She came back with change and I tipped her thirty percent on the off chance the night got busy and I wanted her to notice me among the throng of people.

With drink in hand I turned to survey my surroundings. I saw a DJ’s booth in the corner, but no one was manning it. Or womaning it. Or whatever. Then I saw, through the room, through the women and men sitting and standing at tables, milling in between, a painting on a wall, a painting … that … was … exactly like a colored pencil sketch I had made in the early 2000s. Motherfucker! It was blown up, huge, on the side of a wall, god knows how large, a superimposition of my tiny 16 x 20 sketch. What motherfucker had done this, had sneaked into my sketchbooks and copied it to slap it on a wall for all to see, as if it was his or her own, motherfucking fucking bitch motherfucker?!

As I walked toward it, ignoring the paintings of the other walls, I said, “Who did this? Who stole my fucking sketch?” In some way, I recognized this inquiry as futile, some type of territorial pissing, completely betraying my revulsion to intellectual property ownership. Ego exerted itself, though. “This is mine, man. Seriously, I made this sketch in 2000. Now it’s here, massively blown up as a painting on a wall as if I had nothing to do with it. Who the fuck was raiding my sketch books, man?” Three women sitting at a table next to the hijacked wall painting, sunning themselves beneath a copper-domed light, looked up at me as I stood behind their table indignantly, barely noticing them at all, somehow perceiving them as less significant than the traitor who had absconded with my creation, my ideas, my aesthetic. Fuck, I had come up with bold, hard-lined rainbows of color mixed in a fashion completely random yet geometrically representative of persons, beings, waves, fish, and somehow none of those things, merely colored shapes bordered by hard black lines.

It was a copy of the last of my colored pencil sketches in which I had used black as a bordering element. I abandoned black as a laziness that made far-to-easy-on-the-eyes demarcations of shapes. I had since embraced the subtlety of shaded colors and complemented contrasts wherever appropriate. This was ... this was a violation, an insult, a robbery. I wanted to speak to the artist, to ask why he hadn’t credited me.

But then, as I blocked out the Dutch spoken by the women who were, perhaps, perplexed or annoyed—not that it mattered to me one bit—I considered my own efforts as Forms that had always existed but had only been waiting for any and every artist to articulate particularities through color, whether paint, pencil, stencil, whatever. I was reminded, yet again, why I did not believe in property rights. All Forms existed independent of manifestation. It was, indeed, an accomplishment to discover such Forms and to give them representational life, even if considered abstract, though such a concept betrayed everything about what those Forms were.

This was not, in a strict sense, a Platonic ideal. Neither was it Buddhist. However, each of those manifestations were Forms in and of themselves, ways of conceiving the configuration of not just representations but being itself. Beneath those constellations was formlessness, the stem cell of being that could take any particular shape at any particular time, influenced perhaps most starkly by context, whether cultural or ideological, but even through belief systems or conceptual frameworks, none of them, though, any more than means for functionality, expression, or being in the world in such a way as to project an identity which, as much as anything else, was ego, even if “high” ego which might be better described as identity, a step on a path to self-realization, which was just a fancy term for being what each of us were behind the delusions we adopted through indoctrination and indirect cultural influences, including, especially, familial shapes any of us had been encouraged to accept within economic, political, and social structures.

As I considered the painting, now appreciating it, not simply for itself, but in the sense that I had channeled something similar, I felt the importance of realizing how rare it was to touch, with any measure of understanding, anything past the delusions of Form to what I was, what we were—if we were a “we” or if I was an “I”—while also acknowledging that I was closest to this understanding when I suppressed language and allowed my mind to … flow, a word that seemed trite in context. That was the problem with words; they betrayed meanings by representation, being at best mirrors of reality. They turned the way things were upside down and backwards and, worse yet, distorted what could be in ways that were imperceptible; there was no mathematical configuration that could be applied through formula, even theoretical, to become 1:1. Consciousness, absent language or representation, was the only avenue to understanding, even if even that understanding was but a glimpse of possible realities.

I heard a Dutch voice rising from below me so I looked downward. The woman who had her back to me had swiveled in her seat and was looking up at me gibbering in Dutch. The other two women, sitting across the table, looked either shocked or dismayed. I couldn’t tell, but combined with the tone of the woman sitting below me, I gathered they were either unnerved or perturbed by my lingering presence. It was possible I had stood there for quite a long time while thinking and speaking to myself. I interrupted the jibber-jabber and pointed at the painted wall. “It’s not even my best work.” With that I turned and walked away, finishing my drink as I walked back to the bar.

The bar was still mostly open. I looked out the front windows and saw the rain pouring down. Of course. This night was going to be slow. I shouldn’t have bothered with the big tip. As I placed the empty glass on the counter, standing between two large floor-to-ceiling pillars, the woman who had served me earlier asked if I wanted another. I said yes then stared at the wall of liquors behind her as she made my drink. I pulled out a bill, I couldn’t tell how big, and handed it to her. Exchanging paper for liquid and the rental of a glass seemed entirely ridiculous. Whose idea was this? Do we all really believe this is how things should happen when objects are exchanged? I felt like I was sitting on a cloud high above the earth watching the history of trade throughout the entirety of civilization, wondering why such otherwise intelligent creatures had to stoop to such comical means as a way to overcome distrust. Advanced species? Compared to what? Certainly not dolphins.

I looked in my glass and saw porpoises cavorting. I took a drink and discovered they felt the same way I did about economics. I shrugged my shoulders and said, “What can I do? It’s not like I can join you in the ocean and swim freely for the rest of my life.” A man who previously had been invisible asked me what I had said. “Dolphins. Porpoises. They think capitalism is mundane, but I can’t swim.” I took a good look at the tall fellow and realized he was the gent I had met outside. His eyebrows were raised and he was leaning his torso away from me. I told him I remembered him from outside. He said, “Yeah. You are strange.” He had almost no accent, but that wasn’t the point. As soon as I heard him refer to me as “strange,” I heard Vanessa’s thick accent ringing in my ears: “You are strange.” When I asked aloud, “Why am I strange?” I heard Vanessa’s voice before his: “Because you are strange!”

The man came back into focus. I was struck by his handsomeness, but asked, “Do you know Vanessa, the diminutive supernatural Romanian sexpot?” His eyes widened, allowing me to see that much more of his soul. “You speak very much like her and yet, as beautiful as you are, you do not appear to be as wise or preternaturally young.” I took a drink and felt the rush of maple sugar saturating my tongue. “Forgive me for being judgmental. It’s unfair to compare anyone to an elfish gypsy.”

The tall and perhaps eternally youthful blonde laughed so vigorously I could feel my balls quaking and blood rushing into my cock. I took another drink, the warmth seeming to descend directly into my crotch. What was it, the thought of Vanessa, the young man’s laughter, the sugary warmth of my drink? Before I could try to figure out the mystery, the man spoke. “You are a very interesting person. Come, drink with us.” I didn’t want to be rude and reject his invitation so I followed when he turned and walked away from the bar.

We approached a table near the far corner of the bar, opposite from the corner with the unattended DJ booth. There was music playing, but it was muted and unattractive. The floppy-haired blonde Dutchman pulled out a tall-backed leather chair and I sat down as he slid it under me. He took a seat next to me and introduced me to the others sitting at the table. At first I counted five of us in all, but on second count there were seven of us. It was possible that I had been wrong both times and so I gave up trying to figure it out. There were words uttered that were likely meant as names for each of the men and women present, but I couldn’t recreate any of the sounds let alone who the sounds were supposed to represent. It seemed I was supposed to play the sound game so I said, “Michael,” and there was a generic but subdued hurrah of relative unimportance.

Now that the verbal syllabic introductions had been cast as ineffective incantations a more rousing chatter arose, voices overlapping voices until the tall Dutch blonde man from the bar spoke. I thought of him as Floppy because his hair always switched to the other side of his head whenever he turned one way or the other. Floppy spoke in a commanding voice, first in Dutch and then much softer in English: “He’s the fellow from outside.” Upon this utterance there was another round of hurrahs as everyone seemed to acknowledge that his words were significant. I recognized the need for reference points, but the respondent huzzahs were annoying. Again and again, I had to resist the urge to swat away gnats buzzing about my head.

A fluvial voice escaped from a woman with silver-blue-grey hair wearing dirty-white embroidered fabric as a sweater of some sort. I could only see the top half of her torso, but she was excessively thin, as thin as a ten-year-old boy but with much longer limbs and upper body. The size of her breasts were about the same as a ten-year-old boy as well. I didn’t catch what she said, but I thought it odd that she could have been a fashion model, especially given her sunken cheeks and oversized eyes, and that anyone should find such an child-like gangly-tall androgynous alien figure sexual in any way. Aesthetically pleasing, yes, but there was nothing remotely sexual about this creature; even the tattoos on her arms were aesthetic rather than arousing. For whatever reason, though, that thought gave rise to the possibility that she—and fashion models in general—was an evolutionary advancement that transcended sexuality for the sake of aesthetics and that she reproduced season to season as fashions changed. Perhaps I had suspected objectification to be, actually, evolution in disguise.

As fascinated by these possibilities as I was, it seemed that the table had become impatient. I surmised that there had formed an expectation that I would respond to the woman’s riverine current. I didn’t want to disappoint any longer than I had so instead of asking her what she had said, I simply blurted, “A woman I’m going to paint told me to come here tonight.” I looked back toward a window overlooking the street outside and saw that the rain was still pouring down. “I don’t think she’ll show, though.” The faces of the men and women at the table turned to one another quizzically, again and again in a matter or moments, then they all broke into smiles and looked back at me. I looked at the woman I thought of as Blue Silver and said, “I get the feeling that wasn’t the response you were expecting.” Silent laughter and a look toward Floppy who, when I looked at him, simply shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

Before any of them could say anything more, I asked the group as a whole, “Do you represent a new evolutionary stage? Is this the Age of the Fashionista?” A surprisingly contemplative response from the table. A gel-slicked dark-haired tan stubble-faced man with cheekbones so high they seemed to meet his hairline adjusted the collar of his rusted-orange sport coat which was covering his worn-yellow corduroy unzipped zippered jacket over the top of his denim-blue unbuttoned button-down shirt exposing a black t-shirt with just enough of a tattered-red anarchy symbol showing said, “That’s one way of looking at it.”

I nodded my head while interlacing my fingers under my chin. “Will there be new types of drugs accompanying this evolutionary revolution?” Layered Man looked at Floppy then back at me. “Pretty much.” I finished my drink. “Well, then, let the revolution begin.” Another woman—straight black hair, possibly a wig, crystal sparkles around her eyes, skin so white flakes of it could have been mistaken for cocaine—laughingly said, “I think you started the revolution without us.” Before I could take in any more of her I felt a “whump-whump” at the base of my spine creeping upward. Perhaps she was right. Layered Man interjected, his face dribbling droplets of caramel onto his lapel, “I think Michael should come with us and continue the revolution.”

What that meant, I had no idea, but I gathered we were all going to be leaving together, not so much in search of something out there, but to lead whoever might be worthy in our wake. I could no more complain that this was a bad idea than I could stop the flesh of the Layered Man’s face from slipping off his bones. Poor chap was going to be left with a skeleton for a head if he kept decomposing at this rate. Then again, I didn’t know what was beneath the flesh of this evolved species. I wasn’t one of them, I was pretty sure of that, but neither was I part of humanity. It was possible we were two branches of evolution that had split off in different directions yet had enough respect for the fact that we were young enough within our species to possibly have some use for one another. Evolution toward symbiosis rather than division and competition.

The lot of them, still impossible to tell how many, rose and I struggled to rise from my throne. Floppy gave me a hand and I shot up like a rocket. As we walked toward the door I said, “Orange, lime green, and chartreuse, those are the colors this year. Maybe white, too.” Layered Man gave me his eye and I said, “Your sport coat, your zippered jacket, yes, but instead of blue and black the next layers could have been lime green and white.” He raised an eyebrow and a woman I hadn't recognized earlier, a burnt-orange redhead with a green-vine tattoo climbing up her cheek, looked back at me as the corner of her mouth crept upward toward a grin. Layered Man said, “Lime green, maybe, but white?” I shot back, “You’ll see, white will demand attention eventually. Why wait until the masses figure it out? You’re leading the evolutionary parade. Who’s going to doubt you?” He looked ahead again, seemingly in contemplation. As I walked through the door, half the group seemingly in front of me and half perhaps behind, I asked, “What do you think is happening on Earth right now?”