Mary’s Baroque Personage
Minimalist clap trap insouciance get away from my baroque personage. Someone once said they were transpecies extraordinaire, and someone cut in and quailed: surrender your gender; then an acerbic other cut in sniping: exploiters, exploiters, exploiters while standing in gray back-alley New York. Some tinkling, and someone singing this is the day, followed by a slew of pimply-faced youths miming the lyrics and someone doing an accordionist’s job at playing as if they were in earnest. What did it mean as it flashed by, a mere whir of postulates without proofs—proofs without antecedents. And the best you can do now is remember something you read from Kierkegaard, who was too much religious, (and worse a christian, just as you had been hoodwinked into when you were too young to do anything about it) for your palate, but it was an incisive leap on his part, that century and a half ago: “Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom.” The angst-y freedom to be a serf to your lifestyle, to your politics, to your country, to your family, to your life and how you’ve lived it … and it dawns upon you in ever sharper cubist shards—it’s awful. It’s offal. It’s awful offal. Oh, take another shot of distilled teenage epistemological tripe and go back to your dark corner counting the moldy efflorescences on your shower stall. Really! No one ever.
“Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom.”
— Søren Kierkegaard / The Concept of Anxiety