When dogs lay eggs, the world stops. They stop and stare as if transfixed by an obscene marvel. Some want to buy the dog eggs. Others salivate in an insatiable desire to eat them.
They do not taste good:
they are not food.
They are not domesticated:
they are not pets.
They are an anomaly, a playful satire of the Bastards.
“Yes, Gonzo, you can smell them from a mile away.”
Dog eggs are rare. But rare just means it doesn’t happen that often. It happened. It still happens. It will happen again. Like the cleaning of a house, it is infinite. Infinity like circuits, like halo’s, fat women with tight belts, numerical H, Neuremburg.
This is one for the AM, when frustration kicks in over non-absorbent tea-towels which swab water around and nothing more. They leave you with damp hands and an unfinished job. Like the frustration of Christmas symbols on October 1st, first thing in the morning, waking up to the future and the past, waking up to identifiers of time and a Santa sack of meanings and emotion; like being woken up and forcing a smile. Like the comedown. Like convincing yourself otherwise. Like failing at self-mastery. Like Happening: frustration.
Today I woke up an hour before I needed to. But I didn’t know that at the time. Time eventually told with no need of interrogation. I woke up and all I could think about was dogs laying eggs. That and Tesla-cocks.
Tesla-cocks, unlike dog eggs, are a fictitious technology. A Tesla-cock is a tesla-coil (akin to those featured in Command & Conquer in the frame of a military defence weapon) but instead of emanating electrical bursts it is multiple cocks which ferociously whip at the air each with at least twenty feet of reach. They slap around at intruders, trespassers, enemies who fail to heed warnings. 20 feet of multiple Tesla-cocks slopping around, slapping with the involuntary convulsions of a re-animated over-stuffed sausage. Taking out entire squadrons with a sea threatening fertility, an artillery of ion spunk-bombs impregnating the masses, taking out eyes, molesting every moving human and inhuman object. Fucking massive cock in your face; that’s a defence weapon. Fuck chem weapons, COCK WEAPONS. 50 lashes, burns, bruises, lacerations, limbs off and tinnitus from cracking cock-whips breaking the sound barrier: utter misery. Beaten to death by twenty massive 20 foot dicks until you’re blackened eyes run dry: misery, shame.
Tesla-cocks and dog eggs. I had one extra hour this morning.
If a dog laid an egg it would undo our world. Science would become a story again, would re-become literature. We could not only read, but change it. Science can tell me how my brain works, but it can’t tell me why I am thinking about dog eggs and Tesla-cocks. Freud will try, but cannot tell me why I am writing about dog eggs and Tesla-cocks. I, however, can tell me why I’m thinking and writing about dog eggs and Tesla-cocks. But as soon as I think it it becomes a story, a narrative, a pleasant fiction. You cannot even think without constructing narratives, constructing selves, constructing a world. How incredible; we are all storytellers. My story, your story, our story: his-story. Did you think about it this morning? Did you think your self? Did you ask why you’re eating coco-pops? Did you ask why you got up today? Did you ask why you chose to work? Did you ask why you haven’t shaved your head? Did you ask why you shaved your balls? Did you ask why you haven’t even smiled yet this morning? Have you asked if you are still sleeping? Have you asked what being awake means? Have you questioned meaning and your reasons for questioning? Have you justified yourself to your self? Have you wondered yet what the fuck you are reading?
Everything moves. The only constant is change, cycles and re-cycles. Nostalgia is a demon in disguise, it is the bliss of ignorance. Nostalgia is an empty husk, a pastiche of false promise – promise of a present past – a copy of a copy of a copy of something which, likely, never happened. Yet it is happening.
Did you question your conviction this morning? Did you check for gravity to make sure it is still there? Here, we survive on emptiness alone:
“Feeling lost? Lost feeling?”
We invest, we try to fill carrier bags with sand, plastic bags riddled with holes. We consume. But to think consuming is simply the industry and action of consumerism is lazy. The very function of consumerism is to assume that it is consumerism when by its very nature it screams its own artifice; it is a deterrent. Welcome to the illusion of consumption. Consumption of material goods is a shallow symptom. You cannot undo what has been done. You cannot recycle and save the world. You cannot give to charity and save a life. You cannot save a tree and feed the world. Utopia is death.
What is left? After the image? After the ideology? After the apocalypse: what is left? The Desert of the Real? For it is indeed barren, the empty plane upon which we build, reach toward the sun, in a universe whose expansion is itself an epistemological analogy. But what about a forest? A jungle? A moor? Is this not “natural”? Here, on the level of the “organic”, are we still consuming?
I have spent time thinking about it. I think about this every day. From the moment my eyes open, I make myself smile to remind me that creation is reality. I create every day; I create and re-create a self.
And then I had an hour free this morning.
What is “natural” if not a pastoral idyll? Why do we assume that nature is beyond construct? Why do we call this the “organic”? Are we not nature? Did we not create nature? How can nature exist if no one is there to imagine it so? Do you believe that nature is God with no beginning nor end? The infinite? The always had been and always will be? But the Big Bang theory… natural selection… Darwinian theory… evolution: we created scientific “fact”, invented 2 plus 2. We placed it on a pedestal above all other literature, we valued a science of truth so much that we promoted it to Reality. And yet we would let ourselves forget that just as words can create a world, they can utterly destroy it and everything within. This is our power. Many people are happy to believe without questioning not the truth itself (it is simple enough to object) but why we need this truth so badly that we have, and will, die for it, kill for it.
Red bags and green boxes for re-cycling.
They go into landfills, animals suffer, people are made homeless, civil unrest, a man is shot, war begins, children die, a button is pressed and now we eat each other.
All because of re-cycling.
Dogs and Tesla-cocks. They exist. You have read about them.
But I’m not really an idealist any more, so I read; I’m a dualist. So next time I have an hour, we can spare a though for that illusive material reality. Because this morning I found a message I wrote to myself in my phone when I was drunk:
“Everything I think, all my thoughts will die with me.”