"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.

No Comments

Leave a Reply

Your email is never shared.Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.