[The EZLN and other zapatista translations are all in the Library, including a few new ones, and the sherry is on the sideboard. Help yourselves.]
I’ve been much too long out of the Parlour, and it had nothing to do with fun, I’m afraid. Such a black cloud this can be, those things that grab you by the throat and try to shake joy and pleasure out of body and soul.
Or, just a thought. They do have “child locks” of some sort for computers, no? I think it might be a blessing if someone were to devise a “google lock.” Thus preventing some of us from spending our lives on endlessly lateral facts - the Black Hole of pattern recognition.
And forcing some of us back to the postulate that sometimes a cigar is indeed just a cigar, and we might instead remember the virtues of clarity and cognition and contemplation.
No, I’m not referencing myself here, because the only time I have for googling is for the daily round of queries from friends and cohorts [the “do you knows” and “can you finds” and “I needs”, sigh].
Facts are just facts. They aren’t dreams or thoughts or the grand stuff of love and revolt. And endless googling, I fear, can, in the wrong hands, be the cyber-equivalent of globalization. Replacing local truths with global gossip, serious thought with wire feeds.
Or, even better: whatever.
Especially since I realize that no one, anywhere, has the vaguest clue whereof I speak. Which is a terrible pity, in fact, but, then again, c’est la guerre. Deep cover. What else can a poor girl do?
Sweetness and light, perhaps.
Particularly given the rolling blackouts; children who set their mobiles to Later…Maybe When I’m Dead Bored or Broke; the absolute dearth of beguiling flats in Barcelona a birdsong away from La Boquería; former lovers who suddenly resurface as if the Past were Prologue and not just horrid past [and no, dear B, I’m not referencing thou, sigh], and a fair few other tedious local truths.
Sweetness and light, my sweet derriere. The hour has come to take my own good, often proffered, advice. There are moments when patisserie and sunshine are not the answer.
There is no answer, of course, but there are revels to be had, as well as wine and Mysteries and chaos and even, so I’m told, ecstasy. Part of the riddle to be solved. No facts, but an abundance of passion, danger, and truth.
The quintessentially subversive, shape-shifting, paradoxical, priapic god. The one who appears, suddenly and terribly and in the flesh. The one all women want.
Most dear Dionysus.