Friday, January 16, 2009

on humanity's miscreant scurvy

Out of all the texts I get in a week: from a hot Spanish sculptor's: "Hiya champ. Hope yr well;" to the splendiferous "Want to meet for a drink?" by a notorious perv writer/cunnilingus master sending booty calls my way, I woke up this morning irritated to find:

"In which direction do you want humanity to go?" on my phone, from a guy I sparsely dated in Austin.

And thought:

a.) no wonder


b.) "Man, I know I hate generalized, non-specific questions more than I hate, say, the actual act of Vinyasa Yoga (minus the subsequent toning of my triceps) or stagnant bad smells (like old vomit in a subway station at 2am on the way home from a bender)...but this "humanity" quip's gotta take the metaphorical melted cake right out of Donna Summers' disco rain song.

In which direction do I want humanity to go? Really?

Well, the initial answer that pops into my head is: down on me until I burst forth over a cliff like Niagra Falls, fool; but that's just a crude iota of my brain's personality, who's always itching to play games in opportunous fields filled o' dirt, bawbags & astroturds.

And then I explore the question again, all seriouslike; I think: Socialism's too wishy-washy to consider for an answer due to things like: the subjective needs of an individual, divided by a spectrum of hard-versus-lazy work ethics in America...

before I stop that time-wasting tangent dead in its tracks.

If I were twenty again, I would say: I want humanity to stop being so ignorant; why is everyone so dumb?; this is why I'm alienated from the world; plagued with being an outsider because I am not afraid to ask questions or stare the truth in the face and fight; to stand behind my own opinions in defiance of old-age conditioning.

(but who hasn't been a confused miscreant who barely survived public high school in a small town, staring at the word "misanthrope" in your giant highlighted Webster, alone, imagining a picture of yourself sitting pretty beside the pronunciation: \ˈmi-sən-ˌthrōp\)...(maybe.)

So now, ten years later, what is my answer to the vaguest of vague questions about humans and directions and which way and what?

All I can say for sure is: "It depends. On who you are, how your brain works, and what you want to do with yourself."

Like there's a Hispanic guy walking on the street right now spewing mad jive; I hear him four floors below me, through the window, laughing to one of his buddies about who knows what in a language I don't understand. He's walking East; I am North of him; we are humans, and I can relate to him in this moment because I like to laugh; that's all I know for sure, right now.

In a few minutes I will relate to a fictional character in a book I've been reading on the train to and from my job uptown. Tomorrow? Who knows. Tomorrow's tomorrow.

I don't give a rat's ass about a word that's supposed to represent all the humans on this planet we call "the world." Humanity? Give me a gawdferfrakkin break.

I might as well have been asked: What do you think about orange as a color--do you think its porous circumference is a great representation of infinity? And when you peel its rind, do you think it cries micro tears nostalgically remembering the tree from which it came--in a quiet grove in Georgia?

And still I might say: "It depends. On who you are, how your brain works, and what you want to do with yourself;" but then I'd probably ask that Asker, out--for the sake of strange company harboring the potential of an interesting conversation.

See? I'm so easy sometimes; it's ridiculous.

Ask me if I like oranges and I'll say: "Yes, they are delicious when I am in the mood for citrus."

Just don't ask me what I think about the "direction" of "humanity," or I might make fun of you, like you're stupid--something I used to do all the time, ten years ago before I stopped reading the dictionary for fun...

before I redirected my interests into something called the "practical qualitative context."

Also known as the: "Want to meet me for a drink?" text.

Aka: avoiding scurvy when sailing on pirate ships during long treks out in an endless sea in search of rum, booty and go-go nightclubs with live alpaca: the kind you ride...of course.
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