The world always makes more sense in the morning. By evening I'm usually wondering, "What the hell was all of that about?" In the morning, though, everything is good. The sun pours through the window and paints the top half of my computer screen as I type. In the bright illumination the dust on the screen is unmistakable. The bottom of the screen, shaded by the window sill, looks much cleaner. It's a lie in the dark, though. It's just as dirty as the top. I can see this because it's morning time. By tonight things won't be so clear. By tonight everything will unravel. It's okay, though. Nighttime is not for the sensible. Nighttime is for the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!” Do you know who said that last part? Do you know Jack?
I wanted to become a fan of humanity on Facebook, but humanity is not an organization, business or brand. Even if it were, I'm not an official representative of humanity. So, a page cannot be created and fandom cannot be declared. Not on Facebook anyway. Here at Caveat Emptor, though, you can be a fan of whatever you want. Here I'm a fan of humanity. And also of coffee. And also of you. I'm a fan of you. But not on Facebook. Everywhere else, but not Facebook.
When I was writing about morning and evening in the first paragraph (see above) I was reminded of Douglas Adams's thoughts about Sunday afternoon in the book Life, the Universe and Everything. He called it "the long dark tea-time of the soul," a play on "La noche oscura del alma" or "The Long Dark Night of the Soul", a theological treatise by the 16th-century Carmelite mystic, Saint John of the Cross. According to Adams, Wowbagger, the Infinitely Prolonged, was an immortal who hated immortality. To keep himself busy he set out on a project across space and time to insult everyone in the universe - in alphabetical order. Adams says of Wowbagger, "In the end, it was the Sunday afternoons he couldn't cope with, and that terrible listlessness that starts to set in about 2:55, when you know you've taken all the baths that you can usefully take that day, that however hard you stare at any given paragraph in the newspaper you will never actually read it, or use the revolutionary new pruning technique it describes, and that as you stare at the clock the hands will move relentlessly on to four o'clock, and you will enter the long dark tea-time of the soul." It's a funny thought, I think. It's like describing a sigh. Quite masterful, really.
At least it seems so this morning.
Hello, friends. How are you today?
Later. Love.
