“Ignorance and virtue suck on the same straw. Souls grow on bones but die beneath bankers’ hours.” Those were the great quotes I used as bait in my youth. Where do I go from there, but to wipe the brow of the Second Law of thermodynamics?

–Gabriel Thy

About The Author

From the ear­li­est episodes of my life, I was al­ways sure to be found read­ing, writ­ing, doo­dling, or­ga­niz­ing, and with the most al­ge­bra­ic of pur­pos­es, goof­ing, in­ter­ro­gat­ing, ready­ing, doubt­ing, re­sist­ing, stalk­ing and prepar­ing the way for an artis­tic life not so much of grandiose deeds, but of ex­iled sup­po­si­tions wash­ing up against the keen but jagged shore of in­ter­nal con­tra­dic­tions an au­then­tic American life seems to re­quire these days (and nights).

In high­school cre­ative writ­ing class, I was al­ways by the dumb­est of girls ac­cused of and pe­nal­ized for stray­ing from the top­ic…

There was al­ways the ques­tion of 1) pur­port­ed pri­or­i­ties, 2) sus­pect qual­i­fi­ca­tions and 3) un­du­lat­ing dis­tor­tions of the gear grind­ing so­cial ma­chine that de­bauch my ur­gency for cre­ative ex­pres­sion. Nevertheless, this foul trin­i­ty of “doubts about de­liv­ery sys­tems” stitch­ing the so­cial fab­ric from wooly to bul­ly, served to com­pel my artis­tic in­er­tia when­ev­er and wher­ev­er this cling­ing to my guns of mem­o­ry would take me.

Since I had no nat­ur­al or pre­co­cious tal­ent for draw­ing, or singing, or paint­ing, or writ­ing for that mat­ter, I thus fix­at­ed on the gush­ing foun­tain of ideas I dis­cov­ered in the le­nien­cy of books, sports, and philo­soph­i­cal stand-up, from which I drew lo­cal in­spi­ra­tion and oc­ca­sion­al com­fort. A strong mem­o­ry for use­less and point­less knowl­edge mixed with a custodian’s com­mand of num­bers, were not on­ly my on­ly ap­par­ent gifts, but won­der­ful fetch­ing gifts which I had been taught would take me far. Practicing these mediocre tal­ents with a flair and flam­boy­ance na­tive to my rank in the sib­ling charts, al­ways fil­i­bus­ter­ing doubts un­til I dropped from ex­haus­tion, nat­ur­al cyn­i­cism, and somber re­coil of im­ped­ances I could parse for any morsel of cer­tain­ty, has been my stock in trade, and shall no doubt con­tin­ue un­til the day ar­rives when I no longer find joy in the re­al and sud­den use­less­ness of it all.

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