Agape, grease, filibuster, sugar-free, blasphemy

We're doing what we do best: cannibalizing the frightful Here and Now, the stifling humid Actual. In this world there are no dying mothers, no character arcs, no obstacles or plots, just ambitions and jostling, fears of death (inevitably leading to the first night terrors at realizing that the sugar-free gum was mislabelled). We do best when in front of a television or computer: either way in front of some screen that nature begrudged us for all but the last 50 years of our history (... "and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep man from the Garden", from Genesis echoes out of some rusty associative pathway...), ape jaws slackened by desuetude, ape fingers tweaking little microchips, robot eyes rolling on the empty end-table. We observe and catalogue, bringing the moment to other screens and other ape minds, other ape hands reaching out across the chasm of what we were never tweaked to perceive (read: electricity). We dance together and blast music toghther, or alternately have music blasted at us in a grand rhapsodical cosmic filibuster to keep out that which we cannot speak of (which we must then pass over in silence), a little like the stream of water from a faucet makes a little halo around the imapct site, which brushes crud away by sheer mass erosion (that is why we have metal/porcelain sinks). And tonight we will drink to excess, hoping in the half-light to perfect and sound-proof our blasphemy against the bartender's God-given right to receive a gratuity. Madmen prophets are always crawling out of the woodwork--husky Canadian contractors pour vats of piping-hot Tim Horton's coffee into the dark mysical holes they dare not penetrate (so why did they drill them?) for fear of the prophets' curses. Rudyard Kipling would stand agape at our sarongs and djembes, at our melting tamaracks oozing wax, at our octopi of wires and signals stopping a fine gentleman from taking a leisurely evening stroll, at our humid summers when rain is replaced with grease and pleasant landscape music is replaced with power-chord progressions jacked up to the nth overtone.