July 2, 2010
A Letter (of Sorts) to my Readers (such as they may Be):
In the parable of the brows I am still looking for mine. Some of my favorite performers simply shave theirs off. One of my favorite painters (or painter-myths, really) has only one. The long dark unibrow of the soul, with a glass of The Damned at the ready (could it be: the brewery is Unibrou).
Hibrow will not love you because Hibrow cannot. Lost in purity of examination, sharp edges and gleaming surfaces. Hibrow you wish you could fuck but will only ever fuck you. You can be seen with Hi, but Hibrow cannot love because Hibrow is incapable of love.
Lobrow will be your friend. Lobrow will bring you nachos and share the last drag. Lobrow you can call at 4 am when you want a milkshake and you will have one, but Lobrow loves you because Lobrow loves everyone. Lobrow, let’s just say it: is a whore. It is a professional matter – Lo must, by rights, love everyone equally – which is to say Lo has no particular love for you.
An old fashioned idea, but true: while there is solace in requited love, there is beauty in unrequited love.
I attempt to live guided by trickster spirits, which is itself a deliciously contradictory phrase: guided? spirits? live? On a good day our friend Hi would describe it as a quest for Flow (although it’s more like being Sick and I never liked Csik). On a bad day he’ll tell me to get a job and stop being such a bum. Lo will suggest we party behind the A&P and Fuck The Man! anyway, and I am somewhere in the middle, laying on the sunbaked roof of an early 90s Toyota Corolla, in a fugue state from second hand plastic-smoke drifting of the smoldering cities of apocalypse, refusing to cast myself in either direction, knowing I will (must!), but for this moment staring pointedly at the vaunted but unreachable sky, deliberate in my refusal, back pressed against road-weary metal and horribly, painfully in love.
With apologies to Dave Hickey, then, what I will do is sing you some love songs. I will share my browse, and if in the end we are not in love, then at least we’ll always have the infinite negative capability of the void that, being a thing equally abhorrent and oddly comforting to us both, will draw us to huddle our meager bodies in epic, pointless protestation. We can block this leak together, or drill a relief well with our teeth, or meet for milkshakes behind the A&P.
As You Wish, and pass the bourbon.