Spazmoid Reactions

Sometimes you got really snappy reflexes and people might say a thing about them. Often it is only a small matter. No matter at all, really, but the only acceptable response to these situations is to talk about your spazmoid reflex ability. Clumsiness is its own blessing, but combined with spazmoid reflexes (aka freak knock-overs, perpetually stubbed toes, etc) it is an unforgivable curse.

Why talk about reflex? No, I'm not really going to do that. Lame shit is what I aim to avoid in writing: it is the loftiest goal. Bullshit is far more welcome in my eyes than lame shit. But when there's a critique on, water in the blood and so forth, I really enjoy calling out the lame shit. I like writing sentences, dropping the phrase lame shit in them, and it's ultimately a reflex.

What's most ironic is that reflex is not reflective. At all. Wait. Those words... something's wrong about them. Misunderstood, the first sentence in this paragraph may come off as a shitty joke. You ought to know better by now. That was real shit, such as what I do not casually drop. Wow...

I might just have to give up the business. Set those writing dreams on their proverbial iceberg, watch them recede into the distance – and best of all: never even know when they sink. That lack of finality would make for such a good literary project about hundreds of small, constantly interrupted stories. There's your neo-novel, you grovelling panicmongers. Average length: 200 pages; average # of chapters: 238.

But that entire thought just drifts out into a global warming plastic gyre and disappears amidst the frothy waves. Goodbye, thought. Nice to know you! But you don't even need to offer those kinds of platitudinal, helpful bromides about taking leave. The thing's sunk: your future project almost at maturation disappeared without your knowledge.

Let me illustrate it: John Carpenter's The Thing on an hundred square mile ice-floe. Shit's breaking off. No trust and dwindling... wait this has probably been done. Dynamite, ideas, flying saucers. Morphing terrors from outer space. Your idea is the research station; it has its parts and bastards. The thing is your brain reclaiming the idea. Nobody wins the fight. So not only do they sink, but they sink as one final explosive climax, hissing as it submerges. The idea/non-idea admixture sinks to the bottom of the sea, lies forgotten until it is emerges from the dark waves as a dream or a nightmare.

But at least you don't have to deal with the idea! That's the awesome part. The thing about ideas is that so many of them die in worse ways than ostracism and neglect.


For instance some ideas die with a vengeance, often taking the host with them - yes ideas are parasites. At least some of them could be. You can't be too careful. Ideas are not benign like stories... of course if you conflate the two anything is possible. Maybe you can be too careful. Maybe that's what's doomed us to an uncanny mediocrity. An eternity of that, mind, or close to that. You can't forget how powerful true mediocrity is.

Skepticism, of course, is healthier (in the short term) than credulousness (which, according to the adage 'ignorance is bliss', is better in the long term). So you're probably quite skeptical that anything has happened. Oh, individual, I am with you on that point. Also I have to point out: everything has already happened. New things happen all the time, and they cannot be effectively denied. Happened things have always existed, so they can't be effectively denied. And, myself, I tend to sit in the present where it seems no thing has happened. So, to repeat, individual, I am with you on that point.

What use are events anyway? Even without religion we search for the strings, the continuum, the next fix. Truth, right? But at some point the equilibrium returns, the psychopomps and stages fill up or change or move underground. You might say it is an ebbing equilibrium, I doubt it is. What was that book, Leibowitz's Canticle or something like that? No, I am not on the verge of making a cankle joke. There's an actual book by a very similar name which describes a post-apocalyptic earth a thousand years from now. C'mon douches, I was just getting serious - but now I got to laugh.