There was much to recommend to our muses, such as they are, maundering wretches, meddling in trivial nuances and gestures and all the trite tokens of our ways [this sentence, a perfect rendering of the style of Burton, or possibly Hooker - ? - means I believe nothing but intends - distends as well, for the belly is full, portending a likely end state towards which our means contend - this nothingness with such grace and measured charm that what it doesn't mean means everything towards service of that intention] [this sentence too seems to both lack and assume a general organizing principle not fraught by a wayward dalliance with reason] [?] these last several days for the uses of sad [nee antic] commentary.
Not least of which was the Chinese painting a mountain green. A barren mountain, scarred by some industrial use - does it matter which? - baubles, secreted in cereal boxes or happy meals, waiting to be plucked by greedy fat fingers, toyed with for a few brief seconds of this eternal march, and then tossed into yawning garbage bins - a barren mountain painted green. One imagines to mitigate said barrenness with as little care for integrity as possible. Truth is, and the truth is both funny and telling here, no one, not citizen or government official, no one in the sleepy, blighted burg that sits at the foot of the painted mountain knows why the mountain was
painted - don't know and are loath to offer a guess, for fear no doubt of offending whatever august force brought its serpentine wit to bear on what one must assume was the festering barren mountain problem. Interesting times they will be indeed when this Kafka like behemoth of a nation goose-steps [does the Chinese military goose-step? most sincere apologies if not - in my dreams I see them as committed goose-steppers] its way to center left stage of these world affairs and breaths down the neck of that venerable but now one fears fading star, Uncle Sam.
Most important news of the week though was discovery of Roman coin that ostensibly shows that Cleopatra was in fact it seems not the beauty myth has proclaimed her to be. Now, I try to honour truth and its stolid but somewhat sad attendant reality whenever time and circumstances allow for it - but I'll be damned if I'm gonna let any truth mongering wise ass take from me the belief that Cleo was with most glorious certainty the salacious, opium sucking sylph shown in all her slithering, nubile beauty in HBO's esteemed series 'Rome'.
I will serve gladly the causes of reason and knowledge and the various truths they fabricate from out of our most fallen earth - but don't ask this of me. The price is too dear.
