Sans souci

I like to hear the rumble of thunder in the air, I think it shows that God is still hungry. He has no more need of inquisitors here on earth below: the weightlifters of the world are hard at work like snails salting their own pseudopods. Not only do they pull and poke and yank at themselves with racks, whips and pulleys in dungeons of their own devising, but most of the unpleasant things that come out of their mouths in the throes of a huge squat, for example, seem to almost take the form of thwarted prayers which have turned away from heaven’s direction like ingrown toenails. Why do I torture myself like this too? Maybe I’m haunting my own body. Sometimes I don’t feel quite aligned with it. I’ve started to think that travel is a continuous display of disloyalty to your home, but perhaps under your own skin there isn’t a home either. Progress doesn’t refine existence, it just magnifies it. Supposedly the king at Versailles would hold court while sitting on his commode. Big deal. Today you can sit in chair kind of like that, encased in a metal box, and let the toxic fumes spewing out the back shoot you down the highway at 70 mph. Since for humankind a vibration in the throat seems to be the appropriate response to virtually everything-love, a flower, attack from the air by bat-it’s a pity we can’t have a flaring of the gills as well.

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