This guy sunning himself on a rock reminds me I don't know the difference between a toad and a frog, though if I had to guess I'd guess toad since we were at least twenty-five yards from the Potomac and at least a hundred yards from a creek when he posed. Do you know about Potomac Heritage National Scenic Trail? We did a five mile back-and-forth today, plan on more, though probably not south of Teddy Island because I don't think of the tidal Potomac as the same river as Mather Gorge and up river. This is related to why I never vacation at the beach unless made to.
All this a follow-up to yesterday's post: I've always held motherfucking pigs like Milton Friedman and Margaret Thatcher and her pet dog Ronnie as .06% shittier because they want to ratfuck the peasants as principle while the Democrats, and this is an improbable best case scenario, ratfuck the peasants as pragmatism: we don't want to ratfuck you, but in these days of Corporate power, we have no choice! This is the root of my roob, as I mention every post. Hey! Did you ever wonder what the bottom of The American Legion Bridge looks like from the Virginia side?
- Emancipation and independence.
- Great American hero.
- An illuminating monument.
- Evolution of Crackerstani fundamentalism.
- Astute octopus.
- Midnight's Children, revisited. I've read it twice, the last time at least fifteen years ago. The first time I read it right after reading Fowle's The Magus the first time. It was like two doses of wonderment one after the other. Reread it again ten years later, not KABOOM! but not yawn either. I stopped at Satanic Verses.
- Tried Magus again but had mistakenly read Daniel Martin first and that killed everything.
- The list of most anticipated novels of the next eight months bores me.
- Josipovici for those of you who do.
- Josipovici for those of you who do.
- The one thing that can save America.
UNNATURAL SELECTIONS: A MEDITATION UPON WITNESSING A BULLFROG FUCKING A ROCK
Amalgam of electric jelly, constellated neural knots in the briny binary soup, as surely as stimulus prods response brains are made to choose. And through a major error in pattern recognition or a significant cognitive fault, the bullfrogs brain has selected a two-pound rock as the object of his rampant affection, a rock (to my admittedly mammalian eye) that neither resembles nor even vaguely suggests the female of his species. He does seem to be enjoying himself in a blunted sort of way, but since the rock so obviously remains unmoved one suspects it's not the blending of sweet oblivions that fuels his persistence, but a serious kink in a feedback loop-- or perhaps just kinkiness in general. The less compassionate might even call him the quintessentially insensitive male. Assuming a pan-species gender bond and a common fret, I advise my amphibious pal, "Hey, I don't think she's playing hard to get. That's the literal case you're up against, Jack-- true story, buddy; stone fact. And I'd be fraternally remiss if I didn't share my deep and eminently reasonable doubt that she'll be worn down however long and spectacular the ardor." Ignoring my counsel as completely as he has my presence, the bullfrog continues his fruitless assault with that brain-locked commitment to folly which invariably accompanies dumb, bug-eyed lust. But, in fairness, whose brain hasn't shorted out in a slosh of hormones or, igniting like a shattered jug of gas, fireballed into a howling maelstrom where a rock indeed might seem a port? One can only conclude that such impelling concupiscence serves as a species' life-insurance, sort of a procreative override of any decision requiring thought, thought being notoriously prey to thinking, and the more one thinks about thinking the thinkier it gets. Therefore, though the brain is made to choose, its very existence ultimately depends on the generative supremacy of brainless desire-- for with all respect to Monsieur Descartes you am before you can think you are. Dirt-drive compulsions riding powerful desires render any choice moot, along with reason, morality, taste, manners, and all those other jars of glitter we pour on the sticky and raw. The hard truth is we never chose to choose: not the brains we use to pick between competing explanations for our sexual mess nor these hearts we've burdened with our blunders in the name of love. Do whatever we decide we will, the choice isn't free; we live at the mercy of more pressing needs. Thus, urges urgently surging, we mount a few rocks by mistake. A bit more embarrassing than most of our foolishness, true-- but so what? The power of the imperative coupled with the law of averages virtually guarantees enough will get it right to make more brains to be made up about exactly what steps to take toward what we think we need to do on this stony journey between delusion and mirage-- when to move, where to hide our dreams-- a journey where we finally learn freedom is not a choice a brain is free to choose. Fortunately, my warty friend, the soul is built to cruise.