Affordance: I Don’t Intend To Be Difficult
I’m a joiner. I like to fit in like a dove tail or other connective method of joining two things together which used to be separate. I’m still as large and noble as Patagonia. I’m not as expansive as Whitman, whom I admire without liking or really understanding, or as specific and entrenched as Frost whom I understand and admire and love dearly though not exclusively.
Speaking of love, I’d suggest a kiss, but I’m feeling rather stern and scratchy from not talking much lately. Were I to clear my throat in preparation for this kiss which is not likely to occur, most people, I’m talking the average sort of Joes and Janes who respond to surveys or who are caught like deer in headlights when you point the fucking camera in their face for all the world (or at least those who have sprung for cable) to see. I don’t like to stereotype but I believe firmly and whole heartedly to the extent that particular organ in my wind wracked body still functions in its abecedarian way as a pump and the locus or moment arm ( two terms about which I’m admittedly fuzzy) of all human motives ( and only humans have motives in the purest sense of the word in addition to opposable thumbs which everyone knows or the whole flex palmed thing which we use everyday without really thinking about unless it hurts us somehow) that in order to explain one thing it is necessary to understand something else.
This, some may recognize, is a page from my father’s very good book about how in order to do any job well one must purchase a new tool -- something strange and exotic, perhaps even archaic, like a hand drill or an auger. I’m still too young to really know what one would do with such a tool which I use metaphorically but my father meant in a concrete manner. He would build something with it. Rough-hewn, perhaps, but definite, something to point to, too heavy to lift perhaps and definitely prone to knocking against your shin.
In any case, I’m more of a gardener and less a carpenter. Tools are sort of beside the point in my principal occupation, which is, to state it simply, love, which I’ll define later, after turning over every rock in my garden searching for that which is plain and obvious, as the definitive transaction of the human condition. It is the thing.
Is this working for you? I meant working in the broadest sense of the term like the way lungs work when they are properly outfitted like wings in your chest, but you can define it however you must.
I don’t intend to be difficult but it is plain for all to see that we, by which I mean just you and I dear, are starting to reconsider that kiss.
I’m a joiner. I like to fit in like a dove tail or other connective method of joining two things together which used to be separate. I’m still as large and noble as Patagonia. I’m not as expansive as Whitman, whom I admire without liking or really understanding, or as specific and entrenched as Frost whom I understand and admire and love dearly though not exclusively.
Speaking of love, I’d suggest a kiss, but I’m feeling rather stern and scratchy from not talking much lately. Were I to clear my throat in preparation for this kiss which is not likely to occur, most people, I’m talking the average sort of Joes and Janes who respond to surveys or who are caught like deer in headlights when you point the fucking camera in their face for all the world (or at least those who have sprung for cable) to see. I don’t like to stereotype but I believe firmly and whole heartedly to the extent that particular organ in my wind wracked body still functions in its abecedarian way as a pump and the locus or moment arm ( two terms about which I’m admittedly fuzzy) of all human motives ( and only humans have motives in the purest sense of the word in addition to opposable thumbs which everyone knows or the whole flex palmed thing which we use everyday without really thinking about unless it hurts us somehow) that in order to explain one thing it is necessary to understand something else.
This, some may recognize, is a page from my father’s very good book about how in order to do any job well one must purchase a new tool -- something strange and exotic, perhaps even archaic, like a hand drill or an auger. I’m still too young to really know what one would do with such a tool which I use metaphorically but my father meant in a concrete manner. He would build something with it. Rough-hewn, perhaps, but definite, something to point to, too heavy to lift perhaps and definitely prone to knocking against your shin.
In any case, I’m more of a gardener and less a carpenter. Tools are sort of beside the point in my principal occupation, which is, to state it simply, love, which I’ll define later, after turning over every rock in my garden searching for that which is plain and obvious, as the definitive transaction of the human condition. It is the thing.
Is this working for you? I meant working in the broadest sense of the term like the way lungs work when they are properly outfitted like wings in your chest, but you can define it however you must.
I don’t intend to be difficult but it is plain for all to see that we, by which I mean just you and I dear, are starting to reconsider that kiss.
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