Crazy

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This man's nihilistic tendencies are beginning to matter I thought to myself while sitting comfortably in slippers, with a glass of tepid water, reading the Times.

NEWSprint is glaring/demanding DEATHSEXMURDERBOMBEXTRAEXTRACRASH.

And the font is familiar like my slippers the same the same.

This man's nihilistic tendencies not only matter, but they're going to change the way I read this newspaper. And I don't mean chronologically. I don't mean reading Doonesbury first and then the sports and then the front page, or even the aforementioned list backwards, or even scrambled. Nope. What I mean. What I'm talking about is attention, man.

Attention you normally pay you normally stand at now I've found reason for attention.

So, some-body dies in a wreck; and then I read about it and some-times try to be sad, but what results is only the attempt I'm never truly affected. But I try to care. The same goes for politics, plus football scores, plus celebrity gossip, plus Elian Gonzalez, plus and even rapes. I try to caretried againnopecan't.

But things are different now. This ain't politics, Martha. This ain't about the General Assembly, Joe. And dammit, George, who gives a flying fist fuck about the Minnesota Vikings.

He's an anarchist which is an almost anagram for "antichrist;" I'm such a rambler. I get rambly when excited.

He's a Neal Cassidy. He's the crazy-eyed radical/anarcho-syndicalist/agitator#1.

Is there a fireplace in this room? Just a gas stove. Well, I better switch that on, because I'm wearing slippers and reading the newspaper it just seems appropriate to have a fire. Sure. And what about me gettin' rid of this tepid water and gettin' some tea, dammit. English Gray. That would just really be perfect.

I read the Times every day.

At four o'clock post meridian.

In this gold-buttoned leather chair.

But I'm only processing the familiar font and the taste of the soft pages against my grooved fingertips. Ask me what I've read? Nothing. Ask me what I've noticed? I think there was a picture on page A-…of a girl…with blonde locks…she was pretty.

Other people soak up scandal. They hungrily smack their gums stains on skirts pubic Coke perished little beauty queen Boom! Must be the A-rabs again. Those candy asses know all the juicy details.

My eyeballs dance over the words and recognize letters, but not sentences or topic. Sigh. That was until today.

I was watching birds in the park last Tuesday. Emerald blades of grass, cropped like a Navy boy's skull. Benches with old timers. Manicured trees. And dog shit. That's the park where I was last Tuesday, watching the birds//

Pigeons mainly; sky rats. Then one or two robins. I was watching as a woman walked past and they exploded into the air. Their wings slapped the breeze and they tumbled up and away. I could hear their wings. I could hear it hit air. I could hear their feathers slap at nothing. I then realized that what we conceive of as air, we consider nothing. There's nothing there, right? Nothing between your fingers. Nothing between or above or below. Just nothing. Just air.

But in fact, that nothing is just widely-spaced molecules. And if it had color, and if it had higher density, it might be like wading through water. And if you pushed this equation further it might be like sand. I could hear their feathers slapping it. And I was breathing it. And it sure as hell isn't/wasn't nothing. Is the Pacific Ocean nothing? Those sky rats were swimming in the gargantuan unnamed sea that we call "absence of."

And so after that, I looked at things different.

This man, this nihilist, he looks at things different too. He's an important one; if people listen, he might change everything.

Letter to the Editor

"There is only one thing to say regarding Ed Hayslip's column on rhetoric and its mathematical nature - - - the space of zero encapsulates infinity.

Sincerely, Mark Insurgent"

Yes. I read this. I retained. I recalled. I responded. And now I sit pondering its monumental truth.

Ostentatious superfluity is a bane. Just like that writing professor once said, "Less is more." And so there's the recurring imageryDEATHBOMBCRASHMURDER. Overloaded synapses. My gray matter won't reserve another wrinkle. Remember the wise insurgent, quality looms. A revolution of the spirit, a refining of language, a redefinition of reportage and scribbling and speech and Harlequin romances. Yep. Now where's my tea? English Gray.

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