Not knowing anything well enough to write about it, and feeling quite ashamed of the spirits I conjured last evening, I hammered away on the keyboard as if someone could read what I was writing. The danger every writer faces is that moment when he smiles at what he put down on the page, and it seems to somehow make sense to him…fucking disaster. I stared at the parts manual for my Cub Cadet: Model 2166 and tried to imagine what it would be like to have the mastery over those parts and pieces which I imagined other people had. I daydreamed about what it would feel like to have a clutch or a carburetor completely disassembled and not become panic stricken at the prospect of putting it all back together. Right about that time a small, but not insignificant pain crept up into my testicles. It was the headmaster of life looking at me with sheer disappointment. Utter contempt. And as he conceptualized my wanton disregard for all things civilized, I stared back at him like a caged ape three quarters of an hour past feeding time.
You learn from what speaks to you; timing plays such a pivotal roll in what we decide to learn from. The questions remain the same; the answers all start with, "We all die." And so the answers to every question I ever asked were tainted with the waste of mortal filth. I don't quite know if souls need to be restored. Are they 56 chevys? I believe that our contextual masks get tiresome. Our dogmas become too heavy for us to tote around. I try to forget everything I believe once a month or so; it helps me remain on the edge of pretension without that 'rusty old man' feel to it.
I wish you well.
MACHINE
If we were having this conversation on the subway...