I still remember literary theory class in college. Hell, no I don’t. That was the class with the paper I missed for massive inebriation at the GZA concert the night before.
You’re welcome, literary theory. It saved you the facial expression I was going to make to you. My apathy was a gift.
Ladies and gentlemen, we’re backtracking. Nay, devolving. We pay Donald Trump attention, make women’s outfits skimpier and skimpier, and write words about words. It’s like something that just had to exist, like a pile of dust in an attic, or an electrical wire basement dripping with sticky resin where no one’s been in 10 years. Something just appeals to us so much about that sticky resin. We rape language, we handcuff it and drive it around in our new foreign cars, and pass it off as education, while somewhere off Papua New Guinea an Aborigine is spearing a fish from 20 feet away, is predicting a tsunami hours before it happens. We, in America, with our test tubes and our timetables, can’t even truly know our own language.
It’s like we’re jealous of the person who invented language or something, we have to find fault in it. It’s just so sleek, all those consonants and vowels, maybe we’re like what’s the catch? Like when a person smiles at your when you weren’t expecting to, you’re like, what’s the catch? Do we feel defeated? And if we somehow find language itself to be inherently flawed, are we going to find something so infallible with which to replace it, something so immune to the degradation of human nature as to always administer unquestionable justice, like some divine arbiter?
Jimi Hendrix once said, “If 6 was 9,” I won’t mind. Some people seem even to mind when 6 is 6.