Look Strange And FROWN /John Olson

Look Strange And Frown

As human beings, we live by emotions and thoughts. What I like to do when I encounter a fellow human being is present them with an emotion. I take it out and wield it like a handshake during a pandemic. Emotions are like this. They make people uncomfortable. My face distorts like a hotel awning in a hurricane and this is what I mean when I say I’m feeling squirrelly. Snakes appear on my head and do the boogie-woogie. This is when I’m feeling glad to see you, but also a little nervous, a little insecure about the miniature flight attendants I have about my waist like a ripe glittery belt. Because it’s, you know, a belt, not a Boeing 747, though it could be, if I’m feeling multitudinous. I also wear a lot of bells. Bells are a good way to alert people that I’m coming. And I’m feeling weird. Frankly, I don’t understand the universe. But that’s ok. All it takes a suffix to ravish the collateral left behind by the Big Bang. In the frenzy of thermal molecular mingling, all the meringue that can possibly matter does so courageously. I cradle the idea of it in my brain, all the while entertaining methods to bring into being, into reality, where I can put it on a pie and study and communicate with it, like a robot on Mars, or a daydream drifting down from a loft, spinning slowly as it descends and officiates at a wedding. Let us consider the oval vibrations at right angles: these will appease the need for mementos. You will also notice the smell of manure and burlap, the dry odor of straw, the peculiar odor of twine. This is because we’re in a barn. I’ve created a barn out of words and memory. The cows are curious incongruities, and look more like flamingos, but will give milk if the effort is persistent enough, and the winds are from the east. I speak, of course, of the complete mutuality of adaptation. I’m inept at basketball, but do ok in a field of daisies, chasing chimeras and sniffing out the invisible powers that inhabit these mountains, and deepen our experience of lemonade. Just don’t ask me to dribble. I suck at it. I will, however, unravel easily, given the right situation, the right set of circumstances, and a tartan scarf. In general, we should not be over scrupulous regarding plumage. Those with feathers should be proud, while those with latrines should be glad. The wilderness can be unforgiving, particularly among the nettles. The organs of ideality are small, whereas those of innocence are asymmetrical. This is natural. We need a little taffeta now and then to obscure the nipples of the nuthatch, before they overcome us with rum and intimacy. Nothing that doesn’t exist cannot not find existence in the consistence of wool. All art, remarked Walter Pater, constantly aspires toward the condition of music. And wool is no exception. What would that world look like? It would look like wool. But it would sound like silk.

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