Mike Essig, I don’t know if this is a compliment or not, but I find I really can’t bear to read all your stuff any more as I once did.
It all seems to be about either agony or ecstasy, and whether this is realistic or not of me, I’m trying to manage a way of life somewhere squarely between the two these days. I’ve fully embraced them both, as I had been trained to do by various shrinks and Buddhists and pastors (tell me the difference, again? Masters of rationalization, the pack of them), only to discover that the road to sanity, for me, is a very boring one (thank God, Who also is boring): lined with mundane details and minuscule concerns, where a good day is one that had a smiling baby in it, or somebody I really don’t know all that well asking me how I’ve been after three years when we bump souls at the post office.
Agony can go fuck itself, and ecstasy, simply put, is over-rated. Give me the tedious minutiae of daily life any time, and I’ll make that day a party in its honor, where neither agony nor ecstasy will make it past security at the door.
But I gotta say in your behalf: nowhere before have I encountered anyone who can so mercilessly torture this grand olde English language, and have it thank him for it. Sort of an intellectuals’ Stockholm Syndrome, courtesy of a onetime draft-nondodger who has a taste for surrealistic art, fine music, and the endless iconography of the sixties, and poses puns as pandemonic punditry, like some peripatetic pantheistic pickpocket.
Happy New Year, old thing, whatever you are….