ever read an existential comic?
i love that jokes
are necessary in them,
when all thinking can become comical,
but as i found out:
too many jokes and... too many jokes,
but it's not the sort of comedy
you get to play out with
spontaneity and excessiveness,
the spontaneity and excessiveness of
laughter at no apparent reason -
well, reason being a bunch of reasons
in the realm of too many to handle
a vector narrative -
philosophy, not so much "choose
a narrative", but become comfortable
with a vocabulary,
like a billionaire with a bit of his wealth
stashed in the vaults of Switzerland
of bonds, some wealth it bit-coin,
some in paperwork under the mattress
sleeping uneasy, some in shares on the
stock market, some in a bank debit account;
me? i too want a stable vocabulary,
high heels a purple corset and a red evening
dress, vis-à-vis a well tailored suit
and worn leather shoes expanded to a
comfortable fit by someone else -
as they say: make a footprint on the sand,
make the foot mould the shoe making the
footprint... but as i said, too many jokes,
it almost makes philosophy a futility,
but it only becomes futile
as the futility to live on when a depressive
agent of will decides that thinking per se
is a futility: because thinking per se is the self;
people can make you feel idiotic when
they incorporate you into their use of language,
they do so because they haven't really
bothered to itemise a comfortable vocabulary -
they've itemised something for sure,
but when you deviate from the art of making good
jokes to feeling comfortable with a vocabulary
as if it's a tailored suit, you avoid the dictionary;
i actually thought the dictionary was a holy book once,
but i realised it's a book you do rubrics with,
until you simply unlearn it...
i could go on and on, but it's worthwhile to use
it for a period of time, choose the words
you're comfortable with, words you can use
without question, without that existential
tactic of "god", transcendental "ego", "meaning",
you know that chance to create a sixth meaning
of the word or dig a tunnel of synonymity...
plus all these existential comic strips always leave
me begging the question: did we just have
a Bohemian-style ****, or did we simply sit down
to get a haircut?