This guy approaches me to see about “my organs.” I’m definitely not the one who thought of this, but we must consider human organ functioning to be a choice.
He’s waving his clipboard, saying, “become a donor,” so I look him right in the eye, and I’m like, “no,” but of course he’s sitting down. I always forget how eye contact is like this substitution. I say, “I’m waiting for someone, please don’t sit down.”
He sits down. What tact! He says, “What are you planning on doing with them?”
What am I planning on doing with them?
Like they’re pajama pants? Perhaps another person needs pajama pants? First of all, no one needs my pajama pants. Second, this is not about pajama pants. This is about our collective ability to kindle a small mystical flame. This guy’s like “snuff it out, inspissated sac.”
We’re the same age, probably. He’s handsome without inner vision.
I ask him, “Are you feeling well?”
“Yeah,” he says.
Where do you feel well?”
When a hand fondles a rosary, where is the spiritual revelation? In the beads or in the hands?
How about the scalp? The scalp is comprised of thousands of unsophisticated mouths (drinking all that shampoo and stuff, so be careful). Each of these has within it a steady tenant. If I consented to give away my scalp (I think what happens after the harvest is you get spooned onto a tray that makes ashes) I’d break open my sacred hoop, evict my tenants.
I ask: “You think you’re just a brain? A brain valve?”
Now the man is walking away from me, off to continue fighting for organs, off to ignore the underlying questions.
Your body bears witness.
If you resist my mystical thinking here, you’re managing to enormously increase your respect for me, the very thing you’re professing to deplore, and I swear to God I don’t even care, because a good perfume always travels against the wind.
