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Muchachos Mutandis Salviticus

August 10, 2014

It is not entirely ridiculous to think that it would be just another blog post, short and unprepossessing, lingering in some quiet, neglected corner of the silico-psychosphere (a sphere of many corners — brilliant, dark, brightened, paved-over, pool-shot, porny and blue) that would be your salvation. At some point a third dimension has to open in all of this, erupting finally from so much pressure and weight and vital tactile need, and then you could go through, over to the other side, and be saved. Saved from everything from before anyway — possibly damned in all things to come. When the fish leaps the bowl it is trusting greatly in a proximate bathtub, or ocean. Few fishbowls are placed so conveniently for their occupants. If it was for you, you wouldn’t need to escape. But the route is as likely found here as anywhere, just as truth is as likely found in a blue pill as a red one, or a purple or a green one, or a book or an elm tree. But it is not. As likely, but not actually. This place, this paragraph, is closed, sealed, and admits nothing. To get beyond it you will have to go around. This might take a hike of several hours. If it is getting late in the day you might want to wait until tomorrow. And tomorrow you might think of something else to do, like eating or dusting or rolling the dice. You might even forget that you read this post the day before (which is today) and read it again, although it is worthless. But at this point I should warn you that blog posts can change at any time, they can be altered and redeemed, revised, mangled, wiped-out or reengineered — just like that, like an imagined snap of the fingers — and what was worthless on one day could be a Pearl of Great Price the very next. It is like the guy who saw some olden-times wop sketching out some lines and thought “Huh! I would never want that picture, because it is crappy” but it turned out the wop was Leonardo and the picture Mona Lisa, who is as famous a silent still and homely woman as has ever lived, and worth millions. (I don’t know if the guy got it wrong because he just saw the picture preliminary and unfinished, in it’s crappy stage, or if he had crappy taste, like maybe he was only into flat-faced saints in gold leaf or animal pictures or that Botticellian boom-boom stuff, but I am assuming the former for the purposes of exemplary.) So you might have to read this again, just to see if it stays the same. Who knows what it could become? No one. Who will know what it is? Only those who are reading it, in the ever-dying present moment, racing their eyes along at the exact speed of time. And You, Now, are among their number. Congratulations! But slow down a bit, the speed of time is not that fast. Too late, we’re done

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