The most salient feature of Los Angeles here in these days of early 2019, counting now towards 2020—a dick and tit, or simple orifice parallel number if ever there was one in the history of humankind—is the stink of exhaled cannabis in all its vaporous smoky forms showing up in public outdoor venues on as random a basis as any sensual experience has ever occurred, like walking through a crowd during Christmas or at a well-attended sporting event where everyone has been assigned special symbols and time slots that, when aligned just so, requires in the designated person of the moment a massive elicitation of a warm, jolly, benevolent fart—hopeful transcendence along with measured, even cynical, chocolaty sulfuric admiration for all of life’s exquisite beauty—even widespread scented searching for the means to look down after a mountain climb on all of our collective stupid mysteries and idiotic, self-inflicted paradoxes.
I remember the good old days of college. Post-structural, post-modernist post-urinating-in-our-pants ideas floating over from Europe — Derrida, Foucault, Baudrillard, Habermas, Barthes, etc. — Them guys and their notions of de-constructing our analysis of reality, proclaiming the limits of language excited the bejesus out of us. But after a while I figured out those same titillating thinkers were sort of missing the whole point of art, especially language and literature. Words aren’t limitations. Neither is individual Continue reading “While We Wait for What Comes Next, Let’s Think A Bit More About Fear of Death and Love and Sex”