The cuisinart is again sending mass uncertainty through twenty dimensions, beginning with this. I arrive at this point, sense the cuisinart sending out mass repudiations of lingo, bang-you-up stalwartness, trees, and I feel my pulse quickening, my systems upending themselves in the struggle to keep contained, my breath getting longer and weirder.
"Hoimmm, hulnnnn, hoimmmmm, huphamnnnnnnn...."
Several of the ancient Etruscans celebrating themselves in my vestibule become my companions in those reaches of despair I always called "masturbation." I ask them what they do in their "home time." "We take care of the native plants, of the passages of great plays as yet finished, of each other in our places of joy and paternity." And what do they do for a living? "The same. Things are simple then."
They are! I arrest myself for the fiftieth time trying breakneck laughter as an antidote to total collaboration. With total collaboration, the problem is you don't have your own thing. You don't sit on your thing, manage your thing, divulge your thing to actual friends, ad-lib thing-hopping openly, sadly, with genius consternation. Instead you process each moment by means of the hardest tubers around, passing them in, out, in, out till the tubers or the moments become something much like butter in the abstract, and then you have beer, together, in a cubicle in a brewery, winnowing through the saddles gathering like rice in your folds, one-saddle two-saddle three-saddle four, till you all see the tautology of the little hicks licking, licking till something is all swallowed up--but there you are after all, somehow, and that's total collaboration.
Finally I allow the Etruscans into my heart and we dance openly with the ten-million-ton gay population of Coney Island as the heartfelt misanthropy of the clapboard milkmaids and postmen and gardeners comes on and tells us the truth of the thing in tones of despair. "You are suggesting nothing. In the honest glimmer of this classless moment, you eat your candor with sauce, relishing driblet, driblet, driblet. Is it the sauce? The candor? Surely not the candor, because I have seen more candid by far, and I am only the working people's misanthropy."
The Etruscans wave goodbye. How can they? I look around for the cuisinarts, always hidden as per tradition in layers of service, utility, genius. O genius! that hides a cuisinart in itself as do service, utility. O manifold genius, as much so as cuisinarts in each species and rendering. I do not disdain it. I look for it and find it, and there are the cuisinarts. There they are, and the mass uncertainty wending through fifty dimensions calms down at my look, betrothes itself to the castle by the water, hungers there after split dragon mole, molerelates to itself finally in a breakthrough of character advance.
I, in my room, snap up some loose information and stick to my guns with it. I cannot do otherwise. When information is as good as this, the earnestness of my approach builds on itself and eventually all are happy.