I vacillate. I can’t help it, can I? It’s like I am always a note above and a note below myself, which is called a mordent. It feels like I’m either retaining water or my past lives. Or both.
This is the essential question of modernism. How do I know the future isn’t going to be more fucked up than the past?
The feeling surrounds me, and fucks up my dreams the way McDonalds fucks up the rain forest.
It gnaws it me like when rich people put their feet in a tank of piranhas to get exfoliated. But I am not doing it by choice. So mordant.
I wish I could throw pie à la mode at Thoroughly Modern Millie. I mean, how thorough was she? Did the carpet match the drapes? Did she wipe her finger prints off the murder weapon?
And speaking of Modernism, we must end (must we not?) with T.S. Eliot, the pinnacle of it all. The author of The Waste Land, and Murder in the Cathedral. Of course, I don’t want to give away who the murderer was, but it was the Rum Tum Tugger.