Playing chicken with the earthquake god
This just is not the kind of thing one talks about with a strange ass dude in public. The crazy ole coot soon fell into the distance and the rest of his words became a muddy puddle.
“Climate change,” I thought to myself and I began to invoke another trip to the South Pacific where the waves are almost virginal compared to the oily ones I’d become abruptly reaccustomed to.
I decide to head over to my friend Skip’s hovel. He carved and then painted his abode underneath a huge boulder of which he sleeps directly beneath as if he’s playing chicken with the earthquake god. I poke my head into his foyer and let out my high-pitched signature whistle which there is no response to. I glance over and notice that Skip has added a big commode on the bench just inside the foyer. After careful inspection, I determine that it is both clean and not attached to any pipes. Skip has turned a shitter into a sculpture, go figure.
Oh yeah, by the way, Skip has stopped communicating using words. He speeks solely thru the addition and subtraction of color and object within his kiva home. Thus, when I see the big white porcelain toilet, surrounded by newspapers and magazines, I can’t help but think that Ole Skip might be feeling shit on or something. Call me crazy or a dime-store psychologist, don’t matter to me. Oh, and don’t worry, I didn’t use it.
Sometimes Skip is the sanest guy in the world just because he’s so contrary to it all, seemingly independent of so much that is required by most. I guess, if the world appears to have gone mad to you than maybe that’s how the world sees you but that don’t make it true.
Bardo Surfer sends applause to Raymond for contributing so much time and effort to the cause of getting clothing and blankets to a northern reservation.