Twice I have learned from raw experience while swimming at low tide only a few hundred yards from shore at Rio Del Mar Beach that by wearing an old school black wetsuit with black hood and black booties, and only a very small, discreet logo emblazoned in the chest area to identify my corporate loyalty with pinpoint precision, I may be mistaken for a baby whale or a seal by fishermen who are drunk and stoned while nominally trolling for salmon on Monterey Bay.
You would think once would be enough to motivate change in targeting by one responsible party or the other, excluding me. It’s not as if either time I was deliberately ignoring the questionable restraining order held like a sword of Damocles over my head by searching in the official Monterey Bay sanctuary for the humpback whale who appears to be light taupe, unless what he more accurately represents on the eternal color wheel is dark ecru, in order to apologize properly for past transgressions. The rawness on each occasion possessed a piquant fragrance not unlike decomposing kelp, krill, sewage, anchovies, and bird shit. A boat would only add another toxic level of stink. Who needs to breathe that desperately? I know as well as the next guy who knows anything at all that I can only go where there is a there there and that nothing can stop me except me. Unless the change had come and gone in disguise and passed me by.
One bulbous swabby who could hardly stand up threw frozen chunks of raw squid at me. I could easily have been injured, and then sunk. His red nose seemed to glow in the gloaming like a jet propelled character from a radioactive anime. Good thing for me he threw like a girl. Unless he was a girl, a girl who never played hardball, a foreigner most likely. What else could she be that would make very much sense? Unless she was a he again? I doubt that his or her inability to stand had much to do with sexual preference or identity, though. Either way, good thing for me he or she wasn’t a nearsighted white shark who knows how to chomp first at any vision of blackness, and savor good taste after. In both cases, it was foggy on the surface of the bay and I suspect the expensive German binoculars in use by the androgynous fishing person or persons were clearly out of focus as well. Unless that girl was a real super hero who could see through the blackness. The message that I heard when I raised my head in pointless protest sounded a lot like Japanese, and not to be repeated lightly, although it also sounded a lot like the universally understood, “fuck you, fucker,” the same in any language, which I naturally assumed from past experience to be a message not to be taken lightly when aimed at me.
According to recent reports on the infallible Internet, the Japanese will go anywhere at sea and do whatever it takes on dry land in order to catch a big fat oily tuna that can be profitably carved by the highest bidder with a sharp Ginzu knife. Good for them. A blubbery whale, too, or a small spiny sea urchin. Highly calculable art, after all, knows no finite bounds. Why should exalted humans have to rein in any impulses whatsoever? All across the globe, wasabi awaits. A pathetic Wilkinson sword for stabbing venison is just so yesterday.
The great meaty saga of European taste, which used to be blandly passed down to sycophantic pederasts, clones, idiots, nephews, and princes by fiat, no questions countenanced, and spread from the greater frozen climes to swamps by aristocrats armed with sharply pointed peons to lead the charge, has lately come under assault. It seems that everyone is ga-ga over so many tons of those raw tuna these days. All the right people in all the same places, too. It’s become the somnolent melody beneath so much slow dancing, at which whitish peoples claim ancient expertise. And when precisely did all of these red hot chili peppers come to get mixed up into the delicate off-white stew? What happened to the pure snowy white cream that used to rise and curdle so pleasantly before turning into stinky cheese? What good is sharp metal backed wealth if it can’t buy with no questions asked the best wine, weapons, beef, slaves, hogs, spices, frescoes, hues, sluts, sculptors, harems, harpoons, magicians, bassoonists, balloonists, and gold diggers to keep the flat world functioning?
What do you mean that you don’t want more pure butter slathered richly on top of that creme de la creme? What are you, some sort of fucking infidel? Or a peon?
I know that flashy neon muddled by captivating charcoal is aesthetically the new black in advanced machinery, marketed in tandem with color coded interior designs extracted from the latest four door sedans, and that translucent faux silk undies of course need to match buttery skin tones, while reclining, and that greater adherence to accepted norms in subtle hues would open up a whole zany new demographic for marketing like a precise belly wound, and not only in robotics, but I still prefer many of the old anachronistic ways. Perennially, black is still beautiful. That’s purely that in a nutshell.
I was taught young, and therefore theoretically learned at an early age, that being called dirty names, especially in a language in which the nuances eluded me, does not hurt very much unless accompanied by a big stick, or a flinty stone. A sword, too, would do. I learned that right along with pledges of allegiance, how to fake a good lie for a complicit parent or priest, fealty to cartoon cowboys, ghosts, and apostles, and directions to the exits in a fire drill or a test. It’s just too darn bad that the good old ways die so hard.
When I asked the tawny owl for a learned comment, he said, “It only makes sense without a working intelligence behind it, but I know what you mean.”
I said, “That’s good enough for me.”
At the more advanced level of higher learning and rising consciousness to which I am exposed on a quasi-irregular basis at the Thee Tawny Owl Institute of High Flying and Rising Conciousness, I am striving to learn how to go with the flow while maintaining balance with hips in motion. Sort of. Or at least a valiant effort is made there, somewhere. I know that some things change, including formerly good to great taste, while others remain the same, including sharp swords. I rarely allow talk, talk, talk, or repetition, repetition, repetition to drag me down and get in my way for long, however. Sort of.
Although I would have to be a bigger fool than I was ever meant to be in any language to believe that a good, rousing, “fuck you” is not another perennial here to stay.