The Dinghy

The Dinghy

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Wednesday, October 29, 2003
 
What has become of my velocity, I do not pretend to have forfended.

What has become of what is, I will not, anymore, any longer, now or to come, be sure.

(I must warn: the tenses are a warren today.)

(Or is it tomorrow?)
(O Camus, do that mon dieu thing that you do so well!)

(I am tense. Be warned.)
(Echo? O!)

As you can see: the ding is dead, truncated, its trunk ailing, left in the bushes to perish. Say a prayer. Wherever.


As you can see: I am bludgeoned by the illiteracies of each of the seven ages simultaneously.
As you can see: Fear is a factor herein.
As you can see: you can see.

We have all long considered the intricacies and disingenuities of the truly monotonous existence. Many of us (hopeless and ever hopeful) adherents to the tenets of the "sufficient life," have (for periods temporary in their temporality) cloaked ourselves in the mantle of sufficiency, only to discover in our mantle the gaping holes of vulgarity.

Many of us have tried, failed, tried again, fallen, arisen, been lost, asked for directions, discovered coves, buried our dead, slept in fields and shaken our selves and the selves of others, often to the point of seasickness.

But that is not, exactly, the point that we are looking for.

At the Bureau of Records and Reports, here, at my place of business, beneath the halcyon halogen trapped by mad geniuses in long tubes in huge factories in countries far away, THE HEGEMON has placed an embargo on, of all things: SUFFICIENCY.

Thus my silence, heretofore deafening, is explained.

Thank you for your time.

Go and never come back. (Yes: I'm talking to you, Kelvin.)

That is all.

The end.

Thank you for your time.

Whatever.

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