Human, After All.

Regarding authors who think they are the authors, all authors, every author, and by doing so, have let the pen fall from their hand too many times, like Serres, who is decidedly a punk.


Do not make plans; Gods make plans. The best plans of mice and men--they go wrong, too. But Godly plans? They end in plagues and floods and mean shit.
Be human.
Be the vapor of a word.
Be a game that will outlive you.
Do not plan what will come after the yes or no of a question; just ask.

Last week, I talked in class. Because it so happened that I had something to say. Because it so happened I had the space to say it. It happened. So?
The week before, I thought my heart was going to explode because of that person-by-person, circular tic, tic, ticking down to when I would have to. Have to. Planned to.

I am Olympia.
I am not anxious until I have been wound.
I am not human in that telescope, automaton without; I am human on the outside, inside, through and through withe the occasional gear. That incessant, long distance gandering through that bloody glass is what makes me mechanical. And the looker, too, with it wedged up to the eye like that.

No, don't go looking for legs and skin (as if they were something to put on); you've already got them. You are human, after all.