—–People are always telling me to tone it down and stop clowning around, I could really amount to something if I would get serious and put my ideas in clear sentences, but my ideas are being clouded and impeded and actually distorted, tragically, by my own delivery, for I seem obsessed with couching them in a set of continuous stylistic interferences, and, heck, my own mannerisms are getting in the way of direct communication. They want to understand me, but I won’t let them. There is something very near always highly attractive in my clearly oddball thesis making, people are always telling me, but it, or I, seem to be addressing an audience of elite listeners, educated on some other planet perhaps, who have learned another language, even, from the plain speaking English with which they, these people themselves, address each other, and get around in the workday world with fellows of their own kind. I am not human, or I would talk like a human. Though I seem to have grafted myself onto the human race, and learned some of its wiles and tricks of speech, so I can nearly put them in a trance, sometimes, with my utterances. I have obviously developed an intense interest in yapping and harping, and chirping and digging away at it–whatever it is; and they are not being critical of me as a person. No, they certainly aren’t even personally bothered by me, people aren’t. People are only just always telling me that they don’t have time to listen to me right now. And this I am to understand is a compliment, for they do believe that if they did have time, right now, it would be worth it for them; they can tell I have something important to say, just by the way I am standing there, apparently. But people have priorities, and priorities always come first, and getting into some kind of philosophical consideration, and lost in its labyrinth, is like . . . last.
—–People think I must be kidding, with half or most of the topics I bring up willfully, gleefully, disdainfully even, as if it really doesn’t matter what their reaction is. Hardly anyone finds it imperative and of the moment to consider what personal application a profound issue might have, for them, as if I was a messenger and scribe sent directly to them. It doesn’t usually occur to people that it is fortuitous, or even fortunate, that they are having this conversation, at this time, so appropriate to what is happening in their lives; they just say, “wow,” and move on. It seems to me I live in a mystery no one else even acknowledges, and believe in angels that no one else does; and that whereas I deny there are coincidences, everyone else assumes that is all there is–coincidence, and life itself is accidental. I have to sustain myself by constantly telling myself that every other impression I get is an optical illusion. And that every general assessment I make of other people is just grossly misinformed. How’s that? People seem crazy, or they are wounded, and  the way they treat me is doubly crazy, or like I was trying to hunt them down and finish them off, with my serious focus. Parse that. Life is a riot. And I am lucky. The truth is if you subtract the antics there is no gymnast at all. Without the flourish there is no subject, behind the curtain, for the flourish is a gesture towards the curtain, it is always a magic show, that is how this world came to be. And we do not know the interior rigging. But we speak, and I speak wildly. And I say it is the exaggeration, and the personality, the hinge the door is hanging on, the coat tails flapping as the dark figure sweeps down the street, in a sudden whirlwind, the very idea that this is it, you are finally conscious, you are face to face with . . . the task.