“Feminism is the radical notion that women are human beings.” –somebody smarter than me

I spent a huge portion of the day yesterday working hard on a piece of writing I can’t show you. Not yet. Maybe never.

In the process of writing it, I was given some sus divine visions from on high, about my true nature.

Including the fact that I am not clinically narcissistic, only artistically so, which … hey that’s pretty funny.

Also, that I have completely mastered writing in the style of The Village Voice, but that mastery is bad, because it is not my own personal authentic voice; takes no revelatory risks, is pointless … all that gradschool crap.

Only … I didn’t need a poetic hallucination to tell me that my Work is pointless. I know it in my bones, better than anybody.

I am conditionally comforted by knowing too that the whole Canon, and the entire human creative endeavor since at least the dawn of Holy Civilization itself, is equivalently ‘pointless’ in the absolutist view.

Explain to me, oh sus voice of alleged god, what is the Point, of the paintings of bulls on the walls of the cave at Altamira?

What is the Meaning of the David or the Guernica or the Iliad or Mr. Blue Sky by the Electric Light Orchestra?

I can tell you the Answers! because I have a multiple postgrad degrees (in Science!). But my erudite answers too, would be free of any ultimate Meaning or Point, or to put it another way:

But that would be, just like, my opinion, man …
(What is the point of The Big Lebowski? I’ll tell you. It’s a chick flick, except for hip guys.)

I understand completely that Art is supposed to be absolutely chock-full of meanings and subtle points, and I will even go so far as to say that maybe the best art has some. For all I know. But I don’t know anything, and tragically, honestly, I don’t think you do either; not–ultimately.

I will remember to ask the Buddha on the road about it, after I end him. But until then …

Terfs ain’t funny.