(no subject)
Let me clarify, before I clarify. The part about anthropology is true, and history. But the androgyny, no. I am a woman in this now, and so are you. We made women out of each other, and misogynists as well. What a potion. Blood-stained sheets streaming from a third-story window. We are old world in this, as romantic as we began.
The apology of anthropology, the dictation of didacticism. I was learning and you were flying. I was sinking down to the ground over the navel of the earth and you were dancing around the ruins. Let me clarify that I'm only reaching out now because I know that you have nothing to offer me, and so it is safe because you have nothing to take away.
Up underneath his beard, trailing along his mandible, there's the script for the world. It's only a few words, many of them predictable. Oh, sure, he wants us to love one another. Oh sure, the meek shall inherit the earth. But there is something else there, too. Something that didn't make it to the big screen. We forget he was a voodoo doctor, Mr. JH Christ. We forget, but he does not.
History bears repeating, but anthropology does not. I loved us better when we weren't looking, when we were actors on a stage. When we were hitting our marks for the phalanx. I loved us better when we were cast off to Elba or taking an oath on a tennis court. I loved us better when science was natural science and the earth was the center of the universe and electricity could leak from a jar if you weren't very, very careful.
And so you say the simplest things, as I knew you would. And so in retrospect, you were very simple and young. And it makes me perversely happy to understand myself in this -- I only wanted to believe you heard me, but you never did. History is a narrative, is a fiction, is an archetype. Here she said, "I just want to be part of the prose." And so then, fine.
Poof, you're immortal. Congratulations.
The apology of anthropology, the dictation of didacticism. I was learning and you were flying. I was sinking down to the ground over the navel of the earth and you were dancing around the ruins. Let me clarify that I'm only reaching out now because I know that you have nothing to offer me, and so it is safe because you have nothing to take away.
Up underneath his beard, trailing along his mandible, there's the script for the world. It's only a few words, many of them predictable. Oh, sure, he wants us to love one another. Oh sure, the meek shall inherit the earth. But there is something else there, too. Something that didn't make it to the big screen. We forget he was a voodoo doctor, Mr. JH Christ. We forget, but he does not.
History bears repeating, but anthropology does not. I loved us better when we weren't looking, when we were actors on a stage. When we were hitting our marks for the phalanx. I loved us better when we were cast off to Elba or taking an oath on a tennis court. I loved us better when science was natural science and the earth was the center of the universe and electricity could leak from a jar if you weren't very, very careful.
And so you say the simplest things, as I knew you would. And so in retrospect, you were very simple and young. And it makes me perversely happy to understand myself in this -- I only wanted to believe you heard me, but you never did. History is a narrative, is a fiction, is an archetype. Here she said, "I just want to be part of the prose." And so then, fine.
Poof, you're immortal. Congratulations.