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Go on a date!
Dear MyPicasso,
The way I look at it is there's the risk of crowding you in or full disclosure that just leaves me open. And, there's little time, little space between the two. And, if I'm gotten, I'm gotten; and if not not. While it's totally and certainly unMatchlike to unbuckle one's armor of anonymity, I don't feel like leaving question marks hovering like umbrellas in your mind about me; rather, I'd prefer they crashed into the ground point-first, or that you and I should promenade together down the red-stone concourse of a resort I once knew in Monastir, Tunisia, parasol in hand, my arm crooked, and your hand upon my forearm, many years ago, when I was boy the first time I ever fell in love, and flirted unknowingly with two polite French homosexuals vacationing there.
I'd rather you see I might just be the thing itself, beyond old sterile Immanuel or Emanuel's, a priori's of invention, you asked for; and, what then, another philosopher asked, of you, the other gender. ("And, whither then?" my life's greatest friend--a true genius, the only one I have ever known--now dead some twenty-four years--asked me just as many years ago.) Ah, Sunflower, you ask for passion, and, fun, and scarysmart, if possible. And I am hiding in the cornfield, I am hiding behind some Ganesvoort slaughterhouse, I am appearing like a blindspot, sunspot in your rearview mirror; I am scrubbing the soapstains from your bathtub away, I am pressing my thumbs against the balls of your feet, I am planting my palms upon your shoulder blades, I am playing a little Bach, a variation or two, I am reading Gödel Escher, I am singing the Eensy-Weensy Spider, I am faking accents of people I've never known, I am yelling obscenities at my reflection in a passing mirror, I am the cut of gentleman in my suit, I am the picture of a hick in my overalls, I am more arrogant than Thomas Jefferson on Whitsunday, I am as humble as Horatio watching his friend going to die, I am stable as a keel, mad as a hatter, as brilliant as a magnesium burning, as wild and romantic as laudanum-infused Coleridge, as delirious and self-obsessed and sex-possessed as Schiele before being wiped out by influenza; as patient as ooze, as hopeful as Castro, as dangerous as the nocturnal fisher, as devoted as a crucifix, as ridiculous and as sublime as the two peacocks that used to strut the grounds opposite the Hungarian Cafe and scrape their tails on Amsterdam, as poetic and determined as Menander on a good day, Homer on a bad; I am the swan of Tuonela; Caravaggio on his own; Paganini, Nijinsky in his journals, Pieter Peeperkorn declaiming under the waterfalls; I am the childhood animal in Put Me in the Zoo who plays with colored spots, I am the rose the Little Prince almost forgot.
Egbert
# 100
