Everything is theorized. Theory becomes canon. Canon foreshadows embodiment. Everything is retheorized.
Do I buy this? Does it matter? Surely not.
If I don’t become a “professor” what will I do? Is there anything else I want to do? (To generate income, that is.) Do I even want to do that? Surely not.
What do I want to do? Have a clam bake. Be a grandfather to someone, maybe. Read a nice novel. Pick berries. I guess none of these generate income. Fuck, I don’t know. I suppose it’s a silly question. That is the enlightenment of the far east: the recognition that they are all, without exception, silly questions.
A man in a Raiders jacket. God that’s a strange thing to see in New York—it absolutely doesn’t belong here. Raiders belong to another world completely alien to this one. It’s like rounding a corner and coming face to face with the Tin Man as he tries to hail a cab and bitches about Bloomberg.
He’s clearly drunk. Well I can tell him why: he’s completely out of context and it’s driving him to the bottle.
I remember that when I was very, very small my parents built me a makeshift sandbox on an empty patch of dirt. It didn’t actually have a bottom on it, but they filled it with a couple of bags of beach sand (God knows where from) anyway. As I got a little older I was able to dig deeper and deeper. It didn’t occur to me that I had transgressed the nonexistent “bottom” of the box and was at that point just digging in backyard. I implicitly thought it to be magic and without musing about it knew only too well that my sandbox went all the way to the center of the Earth.