Hat Trick (Oil, Slick)

March 7th, 2009

They say that what you’re reading is nothing if not an open letter, but there’s no such thing, really. Let’s think it through together and I’ll show you what I mean: ‘u’ is a letter, open at the top, with ‘n’ the polar opposite, and ‘I’ would be all-open if only we lived in Flatland. And together, there’s nothing to understand there, no matter how open it might claim to be. Do you get it? Any letter worth its weight while wet demands a response, and without the possibility of response it’s not “open” at all, not to anything but what it puts forward itself. And if that’s just a letter, even when open – even when nude, in the end –with its meaning tucked away in the hat check, we have no choice but to…

… actually, that gives me an idea, the hat check. There’s no harm in rolling in it for a while, getting our hands dirty, finding out for ourselves, if you don’t mind the various florochemical odors of haircare effluence. I hadn’t thought of the hat check before, and it’s not like we’re doing anything important here.

So here we are now, swimming with the lice and scalp-deep in this shit called dander, looking for a single open (and hopefully nude) letter, with a potential bonus of putative context though we know all too well that when it’s lentil day at the soup kitchen, you don’t ask for squash. But we’re not in the soup kitchen now. We can tell by the smell. And in case this has been anything less than perfectly absolutely walk-right-into-the-glass-door clear, I’m not entirely sure what I’m doing here. One thing I am discovering as I wade around here is that our domes reek in unexpectedly different ways from one another, and that en masse like this, with only oiled slicks remaining, it’s unexpectedly unpleasant. Worse than sewage treatment, I’d bet; it’s all the same stuff, more or less, just out the other end is all.

To be honest, I’m not sure this is worth it, and am less sure that I had anything to do with the decision to come down here, this whole scenario puppeteered by an abuliac fit (the thought of which being the first thing to have made sense this entire time, at least to me). It occurs to me now that perhaps you understand this way better than me, and maybe you always have. Maybe that’s okay, but I don’t think I’d go that far. I mean, who’s the one up past her waders in an unparted sea of loose follicles looking for a letter that’s supposed to be open, when we all know good and well that the only one open that’s supposed to stand for anything at all is you? I mean, I know you, and there’s no way you’re standing. Am I right?

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