Monday, June 13, 2011

An Entomologist's Story

She wanted to be a xenobiologist, but had to settle for being an entomologist. That is okay. She has come to love her insects. They scuttle across the surface of the sand, and bury themselves, only their mandibles showing . . . She uses tweezers to grip one by the mandibles and pull it free of its little sand pit. It has undergone a metamorphosis, becoming surprisingly large, glistening, something not quite an insect any more. There is something very unnatural and unpleasant about it.

"This one has devolved, or perhaps evolved," she says, smiling sweetly. "It is hard to tell."

Despite the insect's hideous appearance she still loves it.

She remembers how it was, how throughout the evening, he had his arm around her, stroking her hair, feeling the pulse at her throat. She leaned against him, lowered her head onto his shoulder. They had not even kissed yet.

Months later, at the holiday dinner table, he became a pompous asshole, insulting her friends and alienating her family. She felt cross-eyed, as though she had lost her focus on something under her microscope. Is this the wonderful person she wanted everyone to meet? What happened to him?

And she saw that he had not evolved or devolved, but had been just the same, hiding beneath the surface with only his mandibles protruding. She realized that he had only touched her with his mandibles, and she had responded in kind. They had not mated at all, but she was terrified and overjoyed to think that she just might be pregnant.

Friday, June 10, 2011

Why I Have Not Yet Transcended

Werner Herzog will not avert his eyes. That is what makes him something special. I could have him and Cormac McCarthy and Herman Melville in a hole, shooting down at them with a .22 rifle, and they would take it in stride.

The three of them would continue to have a philosophical discussion about the whole situation until a tiny bullet silenced them. I am convinced of this.

I'll never be an artist.

Thursday, June 9, 2011

I've been through the desert on a fish with no legs

Japan may soon be inhabited by earless rabbits. Bjork dances in a tiny pink dress. Radiohead sings about Scottish mist. It must be sometime in the early twenty-first century, the pre-tween years to be exact . . .

Bombs fall in Yemen. People die. No one knows why, except the oil, the oil, the oil must flow. If I believed in God I would probably be upset, but there is indeed a dog, and he is hungry, nemA.

Sleep Now. Sleep Now, the Bilderbergs are planning it all out, and it will be find. Sleep well but keep doing push ups, until your arms are like iron.

I want to awaken or to fall completely, eternally sleep, no more of this dreamland bullshit, yet the sun erupts.