Combustible, Not Tractable

There wasn’t any friction during the Mother’s Day conversation, except about the use of capital letters and hyphens—there was a heated discussion there. “Excessive uses! Much too much!” one of us said.

Hang up.

There is no equitable fashion. There is no forgetting.

I wrote nothing by design of distraction. By watching Python and reading Pynchon; reading Dreiser and watching Dreyer; then watching and reading W. Herzog all day long. Nothing but “this” at the eleventh hour.

How do we stay safe in this combusting world?

How tired are we of being cooped up in our minds without viable alternatives?

This is better than nothing—I did kill 5 or 6 moths today.

They just keep coming.

I broke my vow of silence when I broke the glass in case of emergency.

I croaked—in a muttering fashion most embarrassing: “Ra… rah… run. Run! There’s a moth infestation.”

We had moths.

We were underground in our hermetically sealed glass boxes—with an infestation of moths.

How was this possible?

Had we not paid our alms, and made our ablutions in the appropriate manner? Had we not prostrated ourselves, made (cretinous) burnt offerings (I was always against this affectation) pungent and breath-taking like good little pawns?

For our troubles, for our conceits to our deity—we get moths!

Was it worth breaking 137 days of silence over?

Documents were signed, codicils initialed, an ascetic’s vow taken.

The pomp.

The sacrifice.

Moths!

What does this mean?

What I’m Reading:

“I have not eaten cake since my sixth birthday. My lifestyle factors predict I will live at least 120 optimal, cake-free years.”

— Tom Ellison / “I’ve Optimized My Health To Make My Life As Long And Unpleasant As Possible”