I’m not out here to tell the truth, that’s for sure; I could care less for truth and its implications, since truth, like an arrogant coward, never travels alone. I tell you, you leave it in a dark, moderately cold place, and you’ll never be bothered again. Other than that, you asked for it, go complain to someone else. Hit the road back.
I am out here to catch a breath of fresh air, have a glass of bourbon and a cigar. That is for picture sake, though — I actually prefer Gitanes sans filter — but I can live with bourbon; I don’t drink enough to die with bourbon. It’s nice out here, with truth buried deeply in the front yard of my cortex, and since I have diminishing eyesight capabilities, I don’t even need to see details of the night spread around me. On top of that, I don’t need to cry, or laugh, I just came out for a … whatever it was, in the still of the night.
What about YOUR eyesight: can you see me out there, that baby penguin slipping and sliding while trying to keep up with the rookery of wise penguins, his pen and paper wet and useless; can you spot a sucker when you see one? The freaking penguin in question is fifty seven years old, believe or not, and the only fact I have to add to his defense is that he is still slipping and sliding; since, as we know it, getting up is much harder than falling down (an excellent movie, by the way, with Michael Douglas as…).
To quote from Twain, when I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not. Myself, I can’t even remember everything that happened to me, but I did notice — more and more as my brain goes into a spiral of lost brain cells — that I vividly remember things that were never to be. As if they are not only more present and easier to touch and taste, but as if they are the only past experience of mine. Scary. And I just came out for a cigarette. If I had planned to have dinner here, it would’ve ended up with suicide, or something of that nature, for dessert. At least I asked for it, I wasn’t minding my own business… or the problem is that I was. It’s hard with problems, you never know ahead where they lie; they aren’t the tigers of India, so you watch carefully approaching that waterhole.
Tigers of India — I could laugh in their face, that’s how afraid I am. But I stop laughing every time I look in the mirror (unless it’s The Mirror of the Sea, by Conrad). And the funny thing is that I’m not afraid of looking in that freaking mirror; I could care less and then some. No. For some reason, I just stop laughing, simple as it sounds. But then again, why was I laughing before glancing at that mirror — maybe it’s where the real question lies, forget the tigers.
A friend of mine once said:’If you are out to describe the truth, leave elegance to the tailor.’ His name is, I think I can remember it, Albert Einstein. And he knew a thing or two about elegance.