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Twelfth Sitting

...Jesus, what a scary dream. Really, folks, that was the Apocalyptic half-time show through which only the strong survived. It was not present in the text, but rather only in your imagination and the Mind of Minolta (product endorsement = happiness). This should have been grossly apparent as I do not laugh tee hee, for that is a most ninnylike noise fit only for mewling puking babes, and I have my standards and purposes, arbitrarily chosen though they me be. My ambition, I think, is to get arrested for corrupting the minds of young'uns. This is very hard to pull off these days, and even though I have talked about sex a lot (very graphically, in fact, as you would remember if you had been paying attention), so I think radical measures must be taken. This is fine, as my alternate strategy for thickening the book was to reprint random pages. I doubt you'd notice, would you, even with the plot discontinuity this would bring, for you are still reeling from brownie goo in your head.

I think the time has almost come to reveal what happened when I hypnotized you a few chapters back and which occurs periodically in the margins, and I will reveal this secret as soon as I think of some clever (or at least leisurely) explanation.

I shall also have to analyze the dream that you just had, concluding, of course, that you are a freak.

I shall also have to push you and call you names. Again.

It's good, you know, to have a list of things to do, to lay some order over this chaotic existence, and then to ignore this list and stay in bed writing Book all day. To avoid this happening, and to avoid running out of ideas about how to push the envelope of your now vastly-developed sensibilities, I will take a break here, but you may not, as the Chapter is not even close to being over. The discontinuities in our time frames will heighten the alienation, making me seem more distant and hence possibly more interesting. Besides, by the time I return (shortly after dinner, I suspect), I may have forgotten what I was talking about and instead teach you some simple tricks like "fetch," "come," and "bend over."

I am back and well rested. I should like to make a connection `twixt a large theme that has built itself up in recent textual history and a small but important point from chapter sicks. I have heard it said (while I spoke it) that the gradual movement from Crudness to Tripeness, from Crap to Crap, is the mission of history, the essence of what it is to be human, and a passage during which it is okay to eat paper. It's what we do, and noticing that we do makes it happen faster. But in Japtre zechs I said that when you point out to people that they do something, they change just to foil you, you and your little explanation, thinking that you are like Mister Einstein, or Plato, or the professor from Gilligan's Island. Do not even try to fool yourself, you with your metric system and your Pyraminx. Man(Wo) he is a wily creature and will evade your narrow inquiries as if they were rubber bands shot off the biggest finger in the world. (The bigness of the finger makes them slow, get it? It's a torque thing, I think.)

To answer this connection or objection that I have raised, to probe its coincidences, and the incidence of its probes, it is necessary that I first say that whatever drug I was on in that evil devil's chapter, it obviously made me stupid if I thought my little law was supposed to apply to anything beyond sociology, which is a totally inane "science" anyway. If I describe humans as inevitably prone to eat, they will not starve just to spite me, but rather starve me, leaving me choking in my own spite. But mayhaps this tripe bit is a different matter.

Sartre, a French person, believes that self-deception is common, and is caused not by unseen Freudian mechanisms, but by consciously and willingly (though maybe very quickly) made decisions. To deceive oneself, to try not to try, just involves sort of catching oneself off guard, like trying to go to sleep... it's just a matter of letting it happen. Now I know I've made some comments here that would make some folks pretty uncomfortable (besides the stuff about necrophelia, mysticism, homosexuality, feminism, death as a good thing, the job system, religion, Eastern thought, the Marquis de Sade, and eating paper), people who pride themselves on having such a strong sense of purpose, of identity. These people don't like being told that they're just behaving like sheep, and pointing this out to them, pointing out that as a very basis of their humanity they don't really want to act this way, is enough to make them obnoxious, to make them try to totally denounce whatever freedom of mind they may have had. I know this because I have dated some of these people.

Add to this apparent difficulty another difficulty. Go ahead. This difficulty, likewise apparent, has to do with things I've said (or at least implied) recently about Tripe as a self-conscious effort. The previous paragraph makes Tripe production sound like a conscious effort to be open to new ideas, and while granted, success in this effort tends to breed (and I mean breed in a very powerful, direct, sexy yet demoralizing manner) more of the effort, it's possible (easy even) to get lax and revert to being a narrow-minded slug. This picture of Tripe-production, though, is just wrong, as I know from writing (or attempting to write, and eventually just pushing random keys and/or drooling) this book. The book, or shall I be let to say, Ze Buch, flows out most beautifully to the ear and eye when simply let to roam, I mean I say I intend to be saying ya gotta be leisurely, ya see? Just flow it `n fly it. Now that sure don't sound like no constant effort, but rather a mode, a getting oneself within a certain purpose (that being to babble and connect and babble without purpose), and of course it'll end up interesting, and psychologically revealing, and pretty darn occasionally funny (maybe), because these things are features of pseudo-random association like I said. So this is again trying not to try in the same way as trying to fall asleep and trying to revert to being a merely narrow-minded phony.

So whatever I said about it being impossible to try not to try was, while literally correct (as these scenarios don't involve simultaneous effort to try and not to try, but rather self-conditioning for future lack of effort), was just plain dumb. Oops.

Religious texts really should say oops more often. I mean there is that bit in the Bible with lots of pigs and birds and stuff flying about in a dream of Paul's (Paul is my Cousin) with a voice booming "Oops, sorry, I must say these things are okay to eat after all, much like paper," but that did become a point of dissension, what with Jews denying the New Testament, and many of them consequently refraining to eat paper (their loss). I suppose when this book is a smash best-seller revolution-causing object of worship, sects will emerge and split over self-contradictions like these, with some believing only the parts before the half-time show and the product endorsement attempts and that "auxiliary author engaged" nonsense, whatever the hell that was.

Now the Talmud, that's a cool text, what with all that internal bickering and proof-reading by sixty different editors. There are just too many things to bitch over in that text to make a sect for each. I recommend the Talmud, yes I do, with a side order of pork rinds (The preceding remark was not meant to be offensive, but it was meant to seem offensive in some inexplicable way, for no reason whatsoever) ...only whenever I and the Talmud disagree, flip a coin or use a magic 8-ball to determine the truth, or simply fail to care.

Returning to something that has to do with something, for she is my home, it seems that if my "Tripe as the natural and inevitable cool thing to do" doctrine is to stay viable (or pronounceable in a quick manner), then I must reinterpret, re-explain, or make up some stuff about Crud and Tripe so as to make them not look like two different directions towards which we may try to fall asleep. This is a task I should be simply delighted to perform, if only you would dim your lights. Go ahead. Do it.

...Don't read in the dark, freaky-person, for you will hurt your eyes!

Ho, I have had one on you. I'm sorry; I love doing that. Turn your lights back up now. The tears of mirth are dripping off me about you, and though I know it's no way to treat a guest, you are just as mean to me in not even pausing in your reading a few lines back to see if your lights have a dimmer. You are heartless, and I resent it, and so will be heartless to you at some point in the next twenty pages, see if I don't. It'll be like that muck about your lymphatic system, only I won't admit my lie right then and there, and you'll be all worried and toss and turn during nights of sleepless torment.

And you're going to spite me by not doing that either, aren't you? Just to spite me! You are mean mean mean.

...But watch as I prove my saintliness and turn my other cheek, choosing to continue in my brilliant exposargumentation instead of tromelling you (what with you ordering all those pizzas to my house, you wacky person you). My point before (in the good old days when I had a point, say, a few pages back) was that Tripe is your destiny, Baby, and don't even try to dodge it `cause you dodgin'll just make it less dodged, ya dig? So that description of letting oneself become a narrow-minded ninny, that "objection" I raised, is obviously bunk or inapplicable (this is in fact the nature of objections to things that I say). But how so? Firstly, gangrene, being a cosmically-conscious individual is not the same as having a swelling, throbbing, huge Tripe weapon in yer brain, so people like my aforementioned X-girlfriend who decide to be as small-minded as possible aren't necessarily inhibiting Tripe; they may still let their mind wander in a random fashion and see Duckie Ford in the Sybarrus Clouds above; they just won't attach any actual importance to this activity and continue to define themselves and their purposed very narrowly. This involves setting up distinctions between the wanderings of the mind and the wanderings of one's character, which may or may not be totally hypocritically full of Gunk. Let's look further, shall we?

To me and my ilk, everything is funny, or at least can be made fun of. This is what freedom of mind is: letting the free association of humor/psychoanalysis wander without limits, and if this means constructing jokes about Jesus, my mother, several sheep, and a big bottle of Vaseline, so be it. Offending oneself is all just part of the fun. This extreme attitude is obviously not essential to humor though, as many or most "people" have senses of humor, but will not let them touch certain subjects. This is what distinguishes humor, for them, from the rest of the world, which is "serious." Obviously I hold no such distinction, which is why some of the "jokes" here end up being artsy-fartsy conceptual conundrums, and not actually funny like a good Butt joke. For Tripe, the humor that claims all as its victim (especially itself), to be "inevitable;" it's got to be seen as the natural tendency inherent in the rest of humor, the next logical step that folks inevitably make, and should they draw back that stepping foot in cowardice, well, they'll die off eventually and their descendants will be such wussies.

My goodness, is it that late? You kids should be getting to bed, or to your real lives (I realize for most of you these are the same thing, or at least designations having equivalent extensions (If you don't know some of these philosophy terms, feel free to write to me via the publisher and ask what the hell I'm talking about)).

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© 1993 Mark A. Linsenmayer [ Contents ]