A Hunt for Spoilers in the Deep of Jazz-Scented Night

There’s something insidious about discussions on the origins of human consciousness in the west. Who’s going around taking credit for cooking up that uneaten mess of christianos y negroes? Make mine American. Frajos and rojitas make conversation crazy enough. Everyone knows eggs obbligato requires separating the yellows from the whites. Those beleagured literati who conceived of immortality as subjective diverged from conventional discourse and now explore the relationship of experiential truth to textural encryption—author those unorthodox screeds which effectively rule out meaningful meaning; although an economy of language does not necessarily accompany intellectual elegance. In short, it is very heavy and can break your ass if it falls on your wallet. (Camus, I want to contain this uncontainableness.) Don’t tell me. Let me guess: Amusement is an over-rated ego-centric phenomenon, a light music in need of deeper resonance. Glassian. Ordinary life should be made sacred. What happens when the consensus rules out discovery at a time of contemporary social crises concerning sexual roles is unfortunate. There is no reality bond between the psychoactive and the spiritual. It’s all rainbows and shadows.

Themisto, you go Grrrl.