What makes you think you’re not?

At lunch today he told me about some silly art theory book he read, then asked me to describe, “your approach to entering the aesthetic state.”

“You must discover without owning; that’s essential,” I replied.

“What does that mean?” Alexi asked.

“You must become the medium, and the medium must also become you, as a whole, yet remaining essentially separate,” I said.

His eyes got wide, and he asked me to elaborate. So I did.

“That was some pseudo-Zen crap I just made up,” I explained. “You shouldn’t believe anyone’s nonsense except your own.”

Fulton also invented lots of other things, but I’ll remember him for one of my favorite quotes. “One measure of a man is what he does when he has nothing to do.” Sounds like art to me!

“You know what your problem is?” she asked. “You’ve got no common scents.”

I thought Amy was being completely ridiculous, so I issued my rebuttal in the form of a loud, basso profundo belch, perhaps one of the most common scents of all after a burrito. I know this sounds vain, but I think I literally rattled the glasses.

Amy was stunned; she clearly wasn’t expecting such clever repartee. I don’t know why Amy and I have so many miscommunications, but we do.

Despite having bestowed a number of titles on myself, such as Pf.T. A.M.N., I usually think they’re silly. I make an exception for Ph.D., though. I’ve seen what my closest friends had to do to earn those characters, and it’s quite an ordeal. And so it was that I was impressed that Patricia made it into the doctors’ club then didn’t tell anyone about it, sort of like a martial arts expert who doesn’t let anyone know until s/he’s attacked, then decapitates an ax murderer with a small piece of dental floss. Or something like that.

Once, I visited Al while he was doing a workshop, and I was struck by the way a lot of the people there regarded him as almost a saint.

“You should do a workshop on getting groupies,” I suggested as we drank whisky in his camper.

“Getting groupies is easy,” he replied, “getting rid of them is the hard part.”

Al should know. He should, and he does.

I was about to leave, when I saw an incredibly beautiful woman. She wore a short, sleeveless dress that revealed a huge, magnificent scar on her upper arm. Her meat and bones body ended at mid-thigh; she walked on elegant mechanical legs. She moved through the crowd with unusual grace; I thought she was extraordinarily lovely.

I wanted to ask her what it was like to have metal legs, and to propose a photography session, but I was too shy. I watched her glide around until I lost her in the forest of people. My friends poured me into the car for the next stage of decline before I could see her again.

Yes, I know it’s grossly insensitive to look at the evidence of someone’s personal tragedy and see only beauty; I’m usually much more empathetic. But, for just a few minutes, it was wonderful to turn off my brain and savor amazement.