A lucid discourse on ends and beginnings And a wink of jouissance at the thrill of the Unnamable In-Between by Ryan B. Martinez, Associate Editor
 What is an end?
I ponder this as, even now, I sense the cosmic sculptor known as Father Time whittling away the potential of my life — and, specifically, my college years — into a discrete and inevitable reality. What will it look like when he's done? How long will it take? And why did he just sculpt what looks like a mushroom flying through a hula-hoo — Oh. Real mature, Father Time.
What is a beginning?
That question plagues me as I survey the chain of ends and beginnings that has comprised my life. Though it remains unfinished, I run my fingers over my lived life's contours, each groove and bump marking where one era ended and another began. Here, my hand strokes the start of my freshma— Excuse me, Father Time...? If you don't mind, I'm trying to have an ontological discourse on the nature of change over here. Oh, you think it's "pussy shit," do you? Why don't you come over here and say that to my face?
Oh, Jesus, your breath— Father Time, you've been drinking again. It's one o'clock in the afternoon! Of course I know you know that. Don't be a smartass with me. No, I don't want to hear your rendition of "When the Saints Go Marching In." Taylor Dane did not sing that, Father Time. That was Louie Armstrong. Now, please, just go lie down on the couch while I finish this up.
Now, where was I? Ah, yes: ends and beginnings. As I've stood here, reflecting on existence and getting interrupted non-stop, I've slowly come to realize one thing: my life is the masterwork of a celestial dumbass. Why stress about the totality of it — my past, my present, and my mostly likely unemployment-ridden near future — when it's being shaped by a lush who's probably carving it into the form of a giant horse's ass? Or worse, into Sarah Jessica Parker?
In summary, I've learned not to fondle a statue made of pure temporality. It's kinda creepy, and I enjoyed it way too much. |
