Thursday, July 4, 2002

an intergalactic joke

There's many things we don't really know. It's an illusion that we know anything at all. If a group of aliens were to stop me and ask, "Say, bud, how many miles an hour does the earth spin at the equator?" I'd be in a fix. Hell, I don't even know why Wednesday follows Tuesday. I'd be an intergalactic joke.

I've read And Quiet Flows the Don and The Brothers Karamazov three times through. I've even read Ideologie Germanica once. I can even recite the value of pi to sixteen places. Would I still be a joke? Probably. They'd laugh their alien heads off.
-Haruki Murakami, A Wild Sheep Chase (148)

I can recite pi to two decimal places. That's right. 3.14. A few of my math teachers in high school had pi posters similar to those alphabet ones from elementary school, where all the decimals of pi wrapped around the room. Way more than two decimal places, but still all I know is 3.14. I've seen the Aronofsky movie and still really know nothing about the signifance of pi - instead, I said that the movie was cool, and that I loved it, because hell, how the hell was I to describe why exactly I loved it, what exactly the message of it was? It was black and white, was shot well, and it had something to do with Jews. It always has something to do with Jews. Always. Or so some think, those dealing with the same questions as us, just resorting to answers too simple. Looking for conspiracies that would give the world a defined sense of order.

My body is leaking. Snot is dripping from my nose in between sniffles that bring it back up. Sweat is pouring out of my back, being absorbed by a yellow towel over the back of this chair. Dried blood is caked to my big, left toe. Phlegm is trying to make its way out of the back of my throat unsuccessfully. I just peed no more than ten minutes ago. There is dried semen on old newspaper pieces sitting in our garbage bag. I could go get them, bring them here and have a bodily fluids party, invite you and your fluids and have a good old time, celebrate our deaths, our lost legs. Try to keep up the dance, hum to the oddly familiar melody even as we decompose, corrode, and become depressed seeing something utterly terrifying in lost liquids, something too close to ourselves being lost - in fact, small pieces of us. Zombies losing limbs, whole jaws, sets of teeth, and looking with desperation for a zombie doctor to fix us, to make everything okay. Dancing because we don't know what we'd do if we stopped, perhaps even doing that silly zombie dance from the "Thriller" video, but doing this because we are unsure as to what our decomposition means, as to whether it is as scary as we fear, or as beautiful as we hope.

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