S T R E A M # 1 6

No, really, there is a smudge on the inside of my Daewoo’s windshield. It’s an odd sort of smudge. You only see it at night or when the sun is blazing itself directly at it. I’ve tried wiping it away with towels and water, and then with towels and 409, and yet the smudge remains. Where did it come from? I have no recollection of spraying the windshield with any sort of smudge-creating liquid. Could it be the amassed leftovers from my periodic sneezing? If so, wouldn’t that make it organic and hencethus wipe-away-able? Despite my efforts the smudge remains. The smudge remains despite my efforts. Or, perhaps, it recurs. Unless it reoccurs. What I’m saying is that it comes and goes. What if the stuff of my sneezes is inorganic? Or at least not organic. Or semi-organic. Or semi-inorganic. Perhaps I am a Cylon after all. What makes (the “reimagined”) Battlestar Galactica so good, so seemingly REAL is, perhaps, the “fact” that it IS real. Or was real. Or some nearly accurate variation of what was real. BSG is a retelling of actual events, perhaps. Possibly historically historic. Or historical history. Or historic histrionics. Whichever, I’d like to believe that it happened. Modern-day mythology has more potency for me than ancient mythology. Although many, or a few, or many of the few, would argue that there’s nothing new. So much of what we think of as “new” is réchauffé. Or, in other words, shined up for the 21st Century. Which is to say that the cows needs must a milking. I don’t know why that’s important to proclaim at this point, but somebody ought to know. The cows – JESUS! What did cows do before humans milked them? How ON EARTH could cows prevent themselves from bursting? Did Neanderthals of yore launch cows - swelling with milk - at their foes? Were cows used as nothing more than milk bombs? Talk about “Green” Warfare! ‘Tis one thing to drink a cold glass of milk on a warm, cloudless day in June, ‘tis quite another to be drenched with the stuff. Should you find yourself soaked through with dairy on any given warm day, cloudless or otherwise, before long, you’ll start to stink. Well, milked-bombed or not, one will. The stink is ever encroaching. Will somebody PLEASE milk the cow(s)? Or answer the phone? Please milk the cow(s) AND answer the phone. Please. Why is it so difficult? What makes it SO FRAKING difficult? Thanks to Battlestar Galactica, I’m saying “Frak” a whole lot more than I’m saying “Fuck.” No, this is a good thing. At last, a singular example of how I’ve managed to change myself. Yes, it’s one tiny way I’ve found the “courage to change the things that I can,” one itsy-bitsy spidery way I’ve chosen – CHOSEN – to react, “between stimulus and response.” But then there’s Neil Strauss, who’ll tell you that “attraction is not a choice.” Who to believe? What to believe? WHATEVER THAT IS, IT’S ALL IN YOUR HEAD. ‘Tis. Me? I’m a ping-pong ball. I bounce back and forth. I want to believe that the choice is mine to make. I want to believe that I am not helpless to change my own behavior. I want to be a rock. A squishy one. I want to be an island. Preferably, Gilligan’s. Recently noted on a notepad: “A partner – a mate – should not ‘complete’;  a partner – a mate – should, instead, ‘complement.’ Seek to ADD to the already existent whole.” But, then, the definition of “complement” includes the word “complete.” Phooey. We don’t say phooey, anymore, do we? It’s a fun word. ‘Tis is, too. You should try it. And the title of my forthcoming and widely anticipated autobiography? Tis Phooey. Bottom reached. 

           6 June 2008

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