Is there a purpose to anything we do? Van Gogh questioned how to act freely without offending God while having no knowledge of the mind of God. There’s something mystical in asking questions without answers. It’s maddening, the beginning of madness. Pollock went another route, painting anger, resentment, frustration, impatience, and rudeness. Colors change, credit card bills remain.

Bottles and cans, bottles and cans.

I perspired while moving a couch against a wall in a failed feng shui attempt. A struggling couch controls the combustion chamber. Did I mention that I was stranded in Utah until a man from San Francisco told me about a woman in Seattle? Turns out, the stranger leads in a new city. Everywhere I went there were churches and bars, bottles and cans, bartenders on adventures looking for gear-shifting blue eyes, exhibitions of innovative contraptions, a naive street buzz about the posterity of mayonnaise, a houseless woman being gingerly lifted inside a paper clip, fire-breathers jousting on tall bikes taking out a row of nude cyclists performing optical illusions, and air-fencing duels witnessed only by participants.

The audience played the role of The Other? We saw flashes of white inside a glass mind crystallizing the universe and a mesmerizing greenhouse of serene purchase compelling us to move.

Did you know body movement creates mood? Neuroscience says, “Keep those hips swaying.”

Perhaps the introduction of a well-defined regularity could help us here. Is that a suggestion for a mixture of archaism and conjecture? My intuition and blindness proceed irregularly, but I surmise you mean something more rigid, a stacking of bricks

You’re on the mark. Get set. Your distortions are too heavy to glean proper meanings or accessible forms of clarity. Too bad. My presentations of discoveries are not at the mercy of chance. Both errors and truths make their way with words, borrowing from old traditions and genuine discoveries into a certain code of color, a system of order.

I had a good day of it, all told. I’ve got my business up and running: Nostalgia for Escorts. It’s based on the Philosophy of The Loop. I have professionalism of spirit. Makes my ass shimmer and shake and, I swear, everyone wants to touch it for at least half a minute. I’ve never been conspicuous, what with my Hawaiian good looks, but I always laugh. I AM.

I grant us a peaceful night and a perfect end.

…

I was a monk, God of Eternal Light, and an aardvark in my past three lives according to an existentialist palm reader. She spoke gibberish to tourists, but she also talked with the dead. When predicting the future she levitated, gyrated, and translocated while whispering, screaming, and squirming after crawling, feasting, and sleeping. She pawed at strangers while making roaring noises. The wickedness of her sexuality was masked by perfume. Last time I saw her, my face was so flush I offered her a mood lightener and an eye softener. Our fun was sweet.

I asked her about herbs, tinctures, and magical beans that could grow a stalk into the clouds. She seemed agelessly ageless. When she flashed her icy blue eyes I felt the cold. Quizzical. She revealed her soul to be shriveled, like the consciousness of a weed. Hmmm, maybe holistic medicine isn’t for me. “Ah,” sensei said, “what is it to be healthy of mind and body if one cannot eat dead cow flesh? A generous spirit attracts monkeys and dogs.” I couldn’t argue with that. Not effectively, anyway.

My self-conception is flawed. Whose isn’t? I spiral indecipherably through uniquely rumbling undulations. Duty salutes and obligation is at ease. There are kiosks, maps, and pointing in my direction. The severity of my recognition is imaginably worse than changing minds. A blessing of bottles and cans, bottles and cans.

I ate a hearty salad, cut a lemon in half, spelled four hash. Preparing the chants, I spilled pineapple juice to create a liquid sensation. Relaxing muscles, stretching nervously, eating randomly. Sternness followed by endearing storytelling for brightness. Intelligence, sure, but laughter? Facial muscles tightening, ten drop fifty, then picking up the floor boards. Shaken, nervous, and insecure, shy enough to be apprehensive, it’s time to unwind. Shivering for blocks down the road, my love of canals overcomes me. She looks young and beautiful in the dawn light: “I’m fit and agile; I can do tricks with my toes.” Hands and arms, guns and knives.

North Dakota farm people were kicking thirty yard field goals. Arenas full of farmers yelling, “Come on, make a bet!” Dusty Vegas they called it. The guzzling goodness of guanine and taurine. Energy drinks, a sort of legalized meth, encouraged by the Man: “Get that work done, son!” Merchandise: smart phones, laptops, tablets, sparkling water, dog food: Formulas for urban layouts.

A gray-green sky suggested diminishing returns. The dimming light turned to darkness as the ash was blown into the acid rain and corrosive mist. Movies and fashion shows loudly announced that the beautiful people had arrived with promises of eternal youth. Bottles and cans, bottles and cans.

I spread out to stay put. Wandering streets and minds, thinking forests, and learning rivers gurgling, all dazzling and beautiful. The wisdom of consciousness, blathering and honking, sinking deep into the quicksand. Ambiguity’s shackles floated through the vagaries of moving water. The conveyance of facsimiles laughed at anything alive. This makes no sense.