20150731 DFW

David Foster Wallace is the patron tennis instructor of those born with microscope eyeballs peering the game we are all playing with a vacillating prowess to deal with the true horrible splendor of what life actually is burdened by the proclivity to paint those images into words knowing one day your own end is floating there like a mouse tail in the soup. It is just a matter of time before it goes down your throat by your own hand or some crinkled coffee receipt pocket of randomness.  This movie  "End of Tour" comes out today.  Basking in what that is I thought I would write a sentence.

The end of the road, the scheme, the ironic hipster disaffected lunch bucket of cursory paste to caulk the sham-world, the year of the adult undergarment glad or whatever wonderchicken gullet to stuff full of irony that writing about a world basting the corn kernels of one’s existence maddened on what is life, what the hell is going on inside you knowing that the universe is right god damn there churning, time is canoodling a lover’s bait in olfactory advertisement and when tasted the scent and the digestive nutrition so often entwine where appearances cake the nose in mustard gas, imbibed with the double-take of a divorced man pulling open microwaved poultry drinking in the hormones and marrow spent blood of deadness oozing right there on the plate holy and smacking, glistening godliness, tongue sparkling to recycle endless circus seen and unseen, seen and unseen until talking is a head-labyrinth nested like a Matryoshka doll another to another face inside face, Francis Bacon smeared in cheek bristles starting at kitchen linoleum to chuck the bird smashed until the pink innards reveal the undercooked streams of any of it, that none of us are every ready, just atoms startled and wandering through the same god damn mess crawling inside like an infinite jesting ant hill legs upon legs pheromones taunting to ridiculous agoraphobic psychosis where even alone the hoard is pounding at the portcullis to invade the smidgen of personal dominion any of us set up to find a breath, just one god damn breath before the treadmill revs and the whip says, “run” to get the P.G.O.A.T to have one intimate relationship in this fire pit of dirt to share even a click of what any of us hold inside.

“This is another paradox, that many of the most important impressions and thoughts in a person's life are ones that flash through your head so fast that fast isn't even the right word, they seem totally different from or outside of the regular sequential clock time we all live by, and they have so little relation to the sort of linear, one-word-after-another word English we all communicate with each other with that it could easily take a whole lifetime just to spell out the contents of one split-second's flash of thoughts and connections, etc. -- and yet we all seem to go around trying to use English (or whatever language our native country happens to use, it goes without saying) to try to convey to other people what we're thinking and to find out what they're thinking, when in fact deep down everybody knows it's a charade and they're just going through the motions. What goes on inside is just too fast and huge and all interconnected for words to do more than barely sketch the outlines of at most one tiny part of it at any given instant.” ― David Foster Wallace