Imaginism

Picture a cheese grater. No, a granite cheese grater. And it is grating a hackey sack. The hackey sack that your hippie neighbours would hack into the wee hours and never allow you to get any sleep because every hack caused in a geyser of patchouli oil (concentrated musk) to shoot out in every direction and stir up the insects, blight the trees and make the motorists miss a beat. Imagine the driver of one of these cars has his bass turned up all the way, so much that it makes the rear grill of his car vibrate unmelodiously. But this is a necessity and not just an ill-thought-out mating display, because he needs the bass beats to keep his pacemaker going until he gets to the hospital. Imagine if he misses a beat. Imagine the panedmonium, the total un-hippieness of it all. Imagine turning over in bed to find your ceiling splashed in ambulance blues and firefighter reds. Imagine tiny little Buddha statues crawling up the outside of your windows, escaped from the paramedics who use the Buddhas to drain and clean wounds. No Buddha could start the young man's heart, and nobody was bothered by this. At long last the hippies stopped hacking and everyone realized the source of the madness, X-Files style, but Mulder and Scully had left five minutes earlier, leaving us with yet another disappointingly unfinished mystery. And it would remain unsolved because the collossal cheese grater was coming to hack apart the community, to hack apart the continuity like a Vogon construction crew ultimately just really looking for comfort in a pitiless space where stars burn too hot and light moves too quickly to catch except when you really need it to peer through the clouds or some shit like that. But that is our place. But imagine it not being so. Can you? If not: it is to be expected. If so: jai guru deva om.

Consider: "In the information age, you don't teach philosophy as they did after feudalism. You perform it. If Aristotle were alive today he'd have a talk show."