They say, quixotic, too stupid to appreciate the hubris, "this is the windmill at which I point my lance."
"I climb the mountain, merely because it is there."
And with such other going on. I had thought a few years back, under different circumstances, that it seemed the young people had targets on their backs. Then only black male youths. A target, either the schools, the random black male pedestrian or the gay night club "hipster".
Such as to say, non-plussed, "well, pin a rose on me."
But it was Miguel Ferrer, pouring cocaine into a sporting lady's cleavage, telling her, "I need all the motivation I can get." Then he tells Coop, "climb whatever mountain you need to climb to catch this maniac."
Sniffing cocaine in a stew of b.o. and dollar knockoff EWWW(ewe) de toilette.
Such waste, to climb a mountain because it is simply there. Tell me you've been otherwise just, temperature and magnanimous in the other parts of your life.
Do that for me, please.
"I had a dream, Doornan, about you and me at one of those black places, eating ribs. I feel like I've turned a corner with my race issues."
"Well pin a rose on you, you fat piece of crap."
Andy worked on his own issues, and thought he had brought the world along with him, just like me feeling equanimity, but looking out at a world that was just as divided as ever, people telling others not to watch the news, or people saying he should pardon his children pre-emptively.
The US doesn't issue Get Out of Jail Free cards, right? Only the DEA did that sometime in the 80s, during an escalation in the war on drugs. Surgeon General adverts on Nintendo Games, at the beginning, along with the publisher logo and stuff.
Did you cross the White House lawn just because it was there? Did you want some natural light, and get it that way? Just strip down to your socks and get in the moat on the National Mall.
"I got naked because the pool of stale water was there."
I was clinging by my fingertips, and the sinews showing white, angry, through my weary body, and I could look back, over my shoulder, and be like, "all that green and blue." "Was that the ground?"
Somewhere my Caprice Classic is there, 305 V8 ticking randomly as it cools from the long drive. And I've thought, "there but for the grace of God", "because it is there", and "but it vexes me; it tests me, so I will have it off."
Or Giuliani, the ronin from hell. A chorus of demons following him around, sounding like my Rogue One phone ringtone(the one that surprised Becky this morning). His hairblack, like the ink of a new Trumpian Contract With America. Buy Trump, Eat Trump, crap party lines into the communal ditches.
I will swing around perdition's flames. Drop a few loose cents into Pandora's Box, to pay admission to that grand mountain. The Magic Mountain, and have it, bring it off, like a whole in the carpet exposing early 20th century hardwood floors, the brown iris of a stupid eye, or the cherry creme of a buttery danish.
The mountain has a permanence, and by climbing it, do you claim a piece of that permanence? Do you achieve longevity, absurdly, by setting aside the value of a life, or aiming a life, as of a life's devotion? The mountain is there. Because it is there. At some point, you stand, like an insect, at the foot of the mountain, regarding a flotsam little speck of eternity, and yourself scarcely rating as a follicle around the rim of a pink sphincter.
You aren't even a dust mite, Cheever. And we have the common lot, so I'm not trying to degrade you, but adjust you, oh Gentle Reader. As mice to Almond Joys' are we to the gods. And inevitably, the more certainty you possess, the more Harris Faulkner, then the further you have gone from the crux, the grice, the eternal serfdom of being just a flesh bag with some chemical electric happenings north of the neck.
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