Once in Mexico city, I saw five cockroaches gathered in a circle in my rented room.
Rendered dreams are mailed in from around the world; there are designs of spirals, lipstick cases, rivers, birds, and all the other elemental, godless here-today-gone-tomorrow things which consume our attention. We immortalize a dream for a few years, with something that looks like a phallus no matter what it is supposed to represent, and then we tear it down.
The president says, “And I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for—” at the moment when the detective arrives, carrying a sharpened spoon. To restore his dignity, he wears a tin-foil bowler. A small number of roses gather in honor around him. One loyalist throws a cherry tomato. The rose company is back in business. The rotten tomato company has never worried about business!
Sad, young, online people talk about Marianne Williamson, about their parents, and about animals with the same pathos with which one mourns a lost childhood—seeming to say, “How beautiful their passion, but how impossible in light of what I know.” In saying so they communicate enthusiasm for enthusiasm, while also communicating their distance from the world in which it was apparently possible.