Say . . . What's the difference between girls and boys? Well, isn't it obvious? Boys have wee-wees and girls have na-nas. Whatever. Let's cut to the chase. Girls are like boys who know what's important. And boys are like girls with insurmountable dreams. Build bridges. Shit, I don't know. But there you have it, anyway. Now, don't look so vacant . . . I know we could go into something or other about braids and bowl-cuts, but that isn't important. Believe me. I've tried so hard to make it important but the truth is only skin-deep. Are you my species? Yes! Do you like me? Yes! Oh, how marvelous! You've caught my interest. So let's kiss all day, or some crazy shit-something. Or let's use your wee-wee like a megaphone, and my na-na like a podium, and sometime later we'll attract an audience. Now, what to do with an audience . . .
Here's what I'm saying. The whole world is acting. Even my cat is acting. The animals are acting. Like some fickle wind blowing through a cast of limp marionettes, left to hang or dance. And who works the wind? Probably some married man. His wife is the weather, or some other kind of writer, and she's lovely. They probably have a couple of kids. Their son is treacherously handsome and bold, and their teenage daughter's got a steady boyfriend. You know. Little units. Simple success, or whatever. Tender fingers.
As far as greater success goes, I think the chemical is rather base. Influence. You either want it or you don't. But, regardless, you have it. So you can either work with it and polish it until it shines, or you can work against it, sand it down until it bleeds into a ghost and drains. A diamond or a hologram diamond. And money grows on trees. Any pig could fly. Do you know what I'm saying?
It's funny. I'm no master of domestication, believe me. I've been flea-bitten and gnawing at my feet for aeons, but that doesn't mean much. Domesticated things are things that are, quite naturally, helpful, friendly, and accessible. Think about a thunderstorm. Whatever's left is residual. Sounds like atmosphere to me. So why is climate-change a part of pop culture? I mean, it doesn't really possess the structure to support its own popularity . . . Huh?
I think winter is different than summer, but both are reasonable. Pool toys and Christmas trees. Someone domesticated the seasons, and I want to know who it was. Because I want her autograph.
You can believe it or refuse to believe it, but your power animal knows the way. These secrets are a part of its law. No, really, find your power animal. Okay, so maybe you don't like being Turtle. That's no concern of mine. I'm girl Fox, and I accept this. However, the matter should be concerning you. Because, congratulations! You've been cast as a character in this production of The Earth Walk. That world-famous fable, set in whatever age we're in. And it's your role, man. To be Turtle. So you might as well make the most of it, y'know. That shell don't move itself. So, power animals . . .
So . . . an enormous bird on fire told me, in a dream, that Turtle is the island itself. And what idiot doesn't want to be an island? But this god-bird also said something about earth and water, elegant protection and breathing with amphibious lungs. I can't say for sure, but I doubt they sell any of those things at the corner store, so it's definitely in your best interest to feel blessed. Go ahead. It only hurts for the first little while.
My life coaches look like freaks. Picture this. They've got tails and feathers and pieces of bone sticking up through their skin. But they're the smartest people I know, and I really like them . . . Oh, who am I kidding? I love them. And, unlike all the silly wee-wees I know, they love that about me. We do everything together. Sky diving, scuba diving, getting borderline wasted off cheap beer, translating poisonous vegetables to rainbows, et cetera. And it all boils down to one thing, over and over again. Good old-fashioned fun. You could consider this a science.
Either that or a fine art. Oh-h-h, fine art. The few, the proud. Fine artists breed fine art, but it would be a curse to assume all fine artists are orphans. On the contrary, these wee-wees and na-nas were born from good blood, and they all must've had at least one good, sturdy climbing tree on or near their property, growing up. Otherwise, where would all of that fine, artistic inspiration have come from? One strong tree and a million limbs. Fine artists and their families eat gold meat up in their family trees. And all true orphans are full, for any good family knows that the best place to store left-overs is in someone else's belly. It's a love of responsibility. Love in general. Very base, you see.
So you may wonder, will it be necessary for us to hold hands throughout? Oh, God, of course not. Empty-handedness is a very attractive quality to discover in either of the sexes. Others will feel more at ease in your company. Some may even kick up their heels and make themselves at home. But because your hands are empty won't mean they have to be idle. There are all sorts of puzzles to play with here in Heaven. An array of finger foods, little ponds for skipping stones, magic doors, and whatnot. I mean, it's Fantasy Land. Daydream City. Occupation: Whoever-The-Fuck. You string the lights. And if you're already a bolt of lightening, at least there's some polarity. That'll keep you striking. Bless my soul.
But, more importantly, bless your soul.
I mean, what else have you got to do on a Sunday night?