There’s no word for my chronic condition. Maybe a specific mental illness or rare psychological disorder. This derangement of the senses comes and goes like the backside of the wind. I’m still unsure what the precise diagnosis for this condition is. Other than hot air. The mind wanders. The French call it flaneur. Someone who dawdles the days away. An idler who lounges about, whether in public or private. A keen observer of the world around them. Not a voyeur or peeping Tom. More like someone who enjoys watching scenes unfold without being part of the show.
But the French have a propensity for ennui mixed with angst in an existential soup. The poete maudit, the wildest dreamer of decadent debauchery. Some might argue that it’s always nightmares. This pretentious chitchat is the result of hearing the sound of a voice, preferably your own, and finding it pleasant to the ear. While listening and conversing with yourself, the words leave me. Part desperation and despair, perfectly content to waffle and wallow in the carefree joy of bright moments.
There’s no better companion for baring the soul, the solitary flesh, in the light of darker truths. Held in the highest regard for glorious beauty, personal respect and the shared esteem of wasted days. There’s something to be said about a running commentary on topics like truth, honor, justice, and the American way. Religion and politics are forever mucking it up. You know, the basics of modern art and culture. Some may call it the lively arts. It’s a strange way of viewing the universe as a work of art. I watched the biopic Daliland, starring Ben Kingsley as the great surrealist master, Salvador Dalí. I laughed, I got surreal, and I fell asleep before the end of the movie. I’m pretty certain it had a tragic and beautiful ending. Like all great art and the artistic characters that create it. I wasn’t going to pay the rental fee again to find out how it ends.
Considering how Dali has influenced me from an early age, it’s proper to respect his insane life and times. The ultimate hedonist to the power and glory of his art and private salvation. Dalí’s up there with the latest and greatest all-time masters of the universe. At his very best, Dali is God. Dali is drugs. Dali is Dali. Was it all a lie, a sordid joke, or the biggest con of all time? Even Dali admitted that it was hard being Dali. Fooled the art world and made a huge splash, accumulating considerable wealth while duping the unsuspecting public. The persona of an eccentric, old-world Euro trash all-star conqueror of puny cultural elites and dill wad dilettantes of good taste, fine etiquette, and the propriety of snotty snobbery. Honesty is a highly overrated virtue. Arrogance and conceit go with the territory. The hierarchy of some royal ruse to undermine the consciousness of the fickle public.
Dali was a flaneur. He liked to watch. A voyeur of homoerotic sexual orgies, aroused by hand-picked male and female suitors, ravaged his nymphomaniac wife, Gala Dali, who was sexed upside down and inside out on a regular basis. Some say she was a demon dominatrix who controlled every aspect of Dali. She grew up in poverty and swore to never be poor again. My guess is that they shared a common passion for overindulgence. A crazy sadomasochistic relationship, one feeding off the other in a mutual supreme love. Eating themselves as the center of attention and each other. A bond of narcissistic spite, fueled by jealousy and resentment. This is why I’m talking to myself again. Words fly by like time itself. I’m speaking to you through my ass. At the same time, in a different direction. In another part of the planet someone pulls their head out of their ass pocket.
At the same time, as the crow flies, the birds will become aggressive, attacking the nests of their neighbors. Pecking out the eyes of strangers. And all your old friends are there, acquaintances and family members, together again for one last hurrah. I’m talking to my mother in a different time zone. Picking the bones of an old recollection. The city has no place in my plans. An old friend comes calling. Those yesterdays were magic. Anything was possible. We came to understand that failure was an essential part of success. “Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”