Le Dense Macabre. Viva la Tabula Rasa. On the inert-skremf of people who call themselves "strong".

We say so often, "I was simply there while the thing happened".  We extrapolate that to imply some kind of inner-strength, some kind of proof of fortitude in our own person, that we did not just keel over dead when the whole thing went tits up, our dreams finished, our carefully-laid plans ruined.  Why, we must be just like the smooth stone in the stream, sort of blunt, obtuse.

Dense.

I am skrong, a proper substitute for a whole fleet of boys that are trying to tear down some old cretin's house over a long weekend.  Why, piss-out electrons, putting char marks in the porcelain of yon vitreous bowl.

"I was simply there while the thing happened."

I must be strong to have survived, you know, that hell of a thing; I must be like Thor or something.  And while some say, "life is persistent" others chime in that "life is a nuisance".  It can be a thing to contend with, I say, having made various small steps forward into the fray.

Fuss and Fricassee.  I can change the channel, you know, look away from unpleasantness-how many of the inner-city dead can never broach my cocoon.  But we are citizens of the world, who must balance time for a thing with time for study.  And my favorite movie star had disappeared, but not before leaving behind a slew of nude photos, grist for the mill, something to whet the threshing fangles.  And all we have to an extent, as time goes on, is the continuous kneecap rasp of past cock-ups, and pictures from other people's picnics.  All that sort of stuff that makes you feel warm and fuzzy, like your insides just died of gangrene.

But the pictures on the wall were there, too, the ants in the carpet, the adrenaline-gorged television even sat through it,too, and all this other stuff, like Mister Couch and Mister Armchair.  Why you would have to say, the whole room is totally "awesome" for having just sat there, like if you had crapped in the floor before it happened, and let that sit during, then after, your poo is also a superhero.

Why, I'm strong?  You want a spritz of Glade, or a peppermint?  What would you watch Shannon Bream's show for, before you go to sleep, so you can get something there that you can let bonk around in your head to get you through the night?  Would you sit there with a bottle of Vodka watching TBN hoping for a word from above?

And you said you were strong.  Pull a semi using the strength of your hair or teeth?  Not that strong?

Put all of Rockingham on your back, like you were some kind of Greek god of old, like you were just going to bear the whole thing with some kind of gritty determination, like "I can sit through practically anything, Megyn".  Foot massage?  Put all of Rockingham on my back, while hearing the old lines, "I knew him, Horatio.  A man of infinite jest, most excellent fancy."