Rest Area

Postcard from Warbler Park

This is Not a Blue-Ribbon Black Angus Hovering Above a Field of Poppies

Synaptic Frost and Fire

Pieta (with Blue Marlin)


Wherefore Art Tao


Another Tom, Another Place

Kooka w/ Wireless Remote-Controlled Hexacontatetragon Yo-Yo

1/2 of Abraham Lincoln

Aluminum Eldorado w/ Practical Tactile Christ

Nothing Is Ever What It Is

Duck and Globe

Accidents Will Happen

Madonna with Yellow Jacket

Satan Claus


Mule and Architecture

What follows is an intercepted conversation resulting from an (accidental) multi-verse encounter between a common mule (jackassius domesticus) and a random, abandoned formation of functionless architecture.

Mule: I shall respond first, your honor, by emphasizing that we are acutely aware and are currently most certain of, shall we say, certain rare slippages, shall we say, inherent in the system; that is, in reference to the frequently insidious, backward, often quite back-firing moral and legal fictions promenading behind our pompous, tedious, superstitious procedures; the superfluous surface features, maps, graphs, polls and globes. First, a round of congratulations to all, that is, to us, is I think certainly something to consider and in perfect order of having achieved a perfectly, successfully overlay-ed reality with nothing more than an open-source template of dystopian illusion.


Mule: Let us meanwhile imagine a random mule, somewhere in the world, call him/her/it "Lucky," who has never, in his/her/its lifetime, traveled beyond a 15 mile radius from the point of its initial emergence to the point of its departure from Earth. For "Lucky," for purposes deemed most topographically-practical in light of the specific parameters of Lucky's own routine trajectory within the marginalization of localized navigation (or for what might as well be), the Earth is, for all important purposes, to Lucky, flat. For Lucky, indeed, for all mules ever having preceded Lucky, the sun still rises and sets in a perpetual motion, a trick of the eye, as it were, that sometimes escapes the consciousness of Lucky, and everyone else who's ever lived.

Of course, we may pretend to know otherwise. That is, we may avail ourselves of, and convincingly present to others advanced scientific methodology, peer-reviewed research, highly-regarded levels of expertise, etc. in order to show how wrong Lucky is, how deluded Lucky is by his pathetically barbarian perspective. We might say that Lucky isn't much "woke."

Meanwhile, for a mule, debate over the shape of the Earth is not a question much worth considering. I go up the hill, I come down the hill. I do what I am told. Everyday. What more is there to discover?

Not in a mule's world. Not according to its singular frame of reference. Lucky knows intuitively the world is not flat because Lucky climbs the hills of the world daily. Indeed, we might say that Lucky, and countless mules before him, would have wished, to whatever almighty Jackass may loom forever above, for a flat Earth. Might we therefore grant him the respect to believe in whatever myth most significantly informs the culture into which to he also has accidentally emerged and must navigate to best insure his successful existence in this world? Theories of a Flat Earth, or not seems irrelevant.


Mule: Within my mind I think I know, at least, I am expected to know (whenever, wherever inquest is made) exactly who, what, and where I am, at all times, and at any random point along the course of my daily trajectory. The burden of a mule, sir, is this: knowledge of the expendability of his person, pretentions and purpose; the uptake of which is modulated, of course, and conveiently provided counter-points (carrots) of (occasionally embarrassing) addictions to food, warmth, love, blood, sex, cigarettes, blood, sex, love, air, alcohol, light, air and time.


Mule: I find I might more easily indulge, or at least co-exist with, my own banal vanities within the parameters of the few remaining refugee camps of acceptable levels of sociopathy that might conceivably exist somewhere in the world. In the current state of affairs, I am sometimes expected to have actionable intelligence concerning what the weather will be like tomorrow, or what time it is (at the split second of inquiry); impossible tasks best left to local shamen. Time, weather, measure, tomorrow are currently not making blips on my radar scope of cognition.


Mule: I am also expected to always know what the matter is, and whether or not I have the slightest idea of what the fuck she's talking about. Again. And yes, again. In addition, I understand I am expected to correctly ascertain whether or not I've been consigned to be that which I've unwittingly, that is, circumstantially become; that is to say; whilst both cognizant of the variable interpretations/judgements I might have sometime elicited in the half-blind eyes of an irrational world, whether by pre-determinant influences over which I've had no control, or whether by courageous expressions of my very own, so-called, "free will." Which turns out to be a more insidious deception than that of anyone evers "god."

And yet it seems probable, or thus it appears a potentially-verifiable proposition, that I may have emerged into this world first through successful navigation of "Fallopian tubes," apparently driven to do so by some will (certainly not my own), and then spat out, quite matter-of-factly, quite revoltingly into a socially, culturally, psychologically, spiritually, ideologically and genetically pre-conditioned, viz., pre-determined state of being over which I, with all this fucking "free will," have not, so much, effected.

So far, no gold stars, no blue ribbons, no Hall of Fame, not even Honorable Mention for having thus far navigated the spatial-temporal terrains of this stupid world. In order that I might be allowed to wonder out loud, or rationally question whatever proclaimed paradigmatic authorities of ethics, aesthetics, morality, law, and mythology might have been imposed upon me, since birth, since circumcision; that is, despite the "free will" I supposedly have miraculously retained after having the routine mutilation of my fucking genitalia... Do I seem a bit obsessed with body modification routinely carried out on children? My bad! Somewhere along the road I seem to recall being told that the physical torture of babies is a bad thing. Then I learn for some people it's a celebration of sacred tradition. And I'm suppose to get that. I'm supposed to happily accept that as just another fact o' life. Some fucking how.


Mule: Now, I would be a liar were I ever to pretend I am not a slave to the system. I know what I am. Most everyone around me knows this too. I'm a fucking mule. And the walls have ears. But then, neither would I be more in error to proclaim myself the very measure of all things, the superior race, and/or god's chosen, etc. Someday I might wake up and say, "You know what? Today, maybe just today, I will be the one in charge of all things! Sorry if you guys didn't get the fucking memo.

Today, if only today, I am going to leave such a smack across the face of the world you guys will all collectively realize either, "Wow, he wasn't fucking around!" Or, "Yeah, that guy! Wasn't he an insurance salesman?" And thereupon proceed to bring the whole shit-show crashing down into the debris of blissful nothingness. Knowing I can destroy everything and everyone with a single shot from a handgun behind my ear, describes to me the only true freedom actually I have in this stupid, boring, meaningless world. This I submit for the record.

I must know, with confidence, and be fully persuaded as to whether or not I am significant to anything, desperately delusional, unremarkable, banal, or the very omnipotent creator of the cosmos itself, and all my eyes survey. On occasion, the thought has zip-lined across the chasms of psyche that I may have been all this sometime before, or nothing of the sort yet. However, what remains of most immediate sensory consideration is whether or not THIS particular physical configuration will ultimately terminate into mud, or a new mule, or into random, function-less architecture, or into an exceptionally aggressive microscopic life form living inside a loaf of cold baloney. Put another way, for which order of magnitude precisely should one's "free will" strive?

If life itself is simply, solely, legally, ethically, spiritually a result of my own desires, then please explain to me why I should prefer to be reincarnated as a human being rather than an earthworm. You never seem to account, or be held to account, for your regurgitating streams of insulting contradictions Oh. You don't know that either. But I know why. So that I might reciprocally, responsibly concede your right in this world to proclaim your delusions of truth, as do I. And as much as I loathe you, your ideas, your style, your puerile ignorance of whatever truth I pretend to know, may we at least agree to leave it there, perhaps carry on another day, under conditions in which you may have opportunity to present yourself less stupid.