Do you expect to be promptly recognized when you raise your hand, ass, or voice, bend an elbow, genuflect at the knee, upturn an eye, arch your back, stretch, stoop, bow, curtsy, or signal effortlessly with a sweeping, anatomic wave? Still? Don’t you know the grave dangers that expectations pose? Look at all the short dictators, sycophants, stockholders, and tawdry hand-to-mouth prophets with dirty feet.
Hazardous expectations that feed upon desire, and naturally overdo it, because what else remains for a hungry glutton to gobble except more, tend to produce some nasty shit.
Shit, in short, like many small and ineffable words, inside and out of your mind, that become insistent, no matter the language, cannot be stopped. Why claim you’re too high to look down? That’s not hardly anywhere, unless you are flying, which you are not. That’s neither coming or going. That’s both before and after the fall. Are you going to pretend you never stepped in it? I repeat, look at the feet.
Just the other day, on a dank nearby corner of a vacated lot, another species disappeared due to chronic exposure to stinky shit that was not neatly stowed away in an underneath compartment. That sent the tally, explosively, into quadruple figures for the quarter. The spreading shit weakened a vital shell. The defenses of the shell collapsed. Everyone knows that defense wins championships. Before that, an important goo began oozing. After that, limbs began to fall off. A testament to a demographic mess.
As a memorial gesture, the tawny owl recruited an unusually large contingent of red-tailed hawks to drop shit bombs on the black Porsche convertible of the techno-yuppie dweeb whose porcelain wife enables her venal white cat to murder beautiful birds. The pampered white cat sports flouncy pink undertones that have become, sadly, au courant. They are falsely advertised as sustainable when reproduced on 100% natural nylon but what sad denial isn’t? Red-tailed hawks usually prefer more solitude when soaring, but the sight of so much insipid pink drives them crazy. It was another one of those days during the endless Summer of November when a roof overhead seemed superfluous. The techno-yuppie dweeb was maneuvering on an extended curve in the Santa Cruz Mountains to begin his descent into Silicon Valley where there was nowhere to go but straight.
Where does so much denial of blatant shit come from and where does it get off? How did sustainable come to mean the shortest distance that myopia is able to travel undetected between ad campaigns? What if the congestion begins all the way back with Triassic dust? You know deep down there’s no way to get rid of dust. No profit motive that huffs and puffs can make a dent. Consciousness, which is all there is and has ever been, takes all forms. Dust is quite handy. What if the optimal solution requires you to lug your baggage and get the hell out of Dodge? Maybe, you’d better start paying attention when Elon Musk offers a ticket to ride on SpaceX. You’ll need to wear a snazzy au courant helmet to ward off more dust, vacuum sealed, 24/7. Your exclusive homestead may be awaiting just over yonder on Mars. All standard rooms are equipped with standard views. Free games, too. Breathe in as deeply as your allowance allows. See how well it works when you deny the super-sized dust devils on the loose there.
During this current extinction period of species on our medium-sized planet, many of them noticeably large, rough, and tumble, like elephants and tigers and bears, oh my, either the sixth or seventh re-occurrence, depending as always upon when and where the count begins, and who and what gets counted in a rigged game by whom, not much of note is happening that has not happened before. Myopically, though, it seems different, right? We can all agree on that much, right? If it was rising expectations that were becoming extinct, we might find more dissent. As if.
When the tawny owl had sufficiently laughed his owlish ass off after his small prank produced hilarious results, like duh, he ascended to a higher level of consciousness at an altitude with which I am not familiar, nor included. There, or sort of there, or somewhere in the nether area relatively nearby there, he engaged with other flighty astral travelers on the swinging scene, namely his good friends the beavers, Burton and Berton, in a consideration of transformative figure-eights, the most basic building block of the multiverse. Highly animated demonstrations were included. Dust swirled magnificently throughout.
At the same time, I was left no less than usual at my much lower level of consciousness, but not the lowest, because take a look around, like duh, digging right here in the dirt to contend with a maelstrom of contradictions, the second most basic building block of the multiverse. There was lots of shit that remained resilient right next door to me and looked to be creeping closer. I was righteously searching for a clue. There had to be somebody to blame. Unless stuck is the correct word that was looking for me as I was facing elsewhere, and I was stepping with the wrong foot into a pit of mistakes, the third most basic building block of the multiverse.
When there is no beginning and no end, and nothing happens that has not happened before, though, myopically, it looks that way, and you think otherwise, those mistakes, much like that shit, pile up. Often loads are dumped by the same old usual suspects in the same old familiar places. New suspects who absolutely never make dumb mistakes appear on the scene to add and subtract and fix with opposing thumbs and quick drying cement, wisely. Humans are an example of a great success story in a scant history if the role model is that cute Rube Goldberg. Everyone loves a good chuckle, as well as a sausage on a bun, and a roll in the hay. And don’t forget that cement. But, does your big brain really conclude that a rickety roller coaster still blowing smoke is a definition of sustainability?
I don’t know what’s around the next blind curve that’s coming up fast because my tongue is wagging, ass is itchy, context is wobbly, and my eyes don’t see too good, but it looks like there must be a clear lane for passing pretty soon. Sure, why not? What else could that be? Unless that space is set aside for lots more merging. But, I figure if I keep going fast enough, and straight enough, and don’t ask too many questions without the answers stuffed into my hip pocket, and don’t look back too far, or turn too violently on a swivel, I’ll have to get somewhere.