Bigsley the Oaf

discomfortability FISH

Posted in Uncategorized by bigsleytheoaf on December 21, 2010

Reference, reference, reference, social nausea feels like pure reference, nothing but reference, reference to this, to that, to that meaningless bit of fluff on the shirt sleeve, to the television show, really, the television show, that you were watching last night, with your family, with your wife, and your children; conversation drifts here and there but doesn’t catch, it’s like a wet handshake, it’s like wet socks and nowhere to take them off, it’s like a limp wrist. There are escapes, but the escapes are all oblivion, or extraordinary, and it’s difficult to live extraordinarily for too long; the universe is a miser, really, have you noticed that it doesn’t let a single thing go, a single fact slip, a single certainty become even fuzzy, every debt must be paid in full and then some.

Reference, reference, reference, we’re spinning you and I, caught uncomfortably against each other, smooshed like children at the bottom of the ball pit, against each other, but indifferent to each other, wondering when the obligatory talky time period has ended, wondering whether there’s a hot girl at this party, wondering where the oblivion is hiding at. Reference your friends, your hair, your achievements, reference references, loads of them, complex encodings of references, reference reference encoding schemes, reference that, and this, and this post. Reference something because you’re nothing, and we can’t both be nothing.

It’s uncomfortable to be the only live one in the room, but it’s more uncomfortable to be the only live one in the world, the only fish flopping, caught in a glint of reflected refracted infinitely complicatedly spawned mountain light, thrown on the shore and whipping to survive just a little longer, not knowing you’re dying, eyes staring blank into an alien sky.

It’s uncomfortable to use the word only, the word exceptional, the word reference; it’s uncomfortable to live, to breathe, to be full of snot and puss and to know you’re going to die but not know when. It’s uncomfortable, how many things there are to be referenced. It’s uncomfortable knowing that the reason you’re referencing the things that you’re referencing is incidental, just the slippery wheel of fate pushing its treads down into your heart/brain/mind/soul/spirit/ghost, just the wonder at the moment, at the resolution of chaos into something arbitrary and always pointing. What you reference and say and think and even reading this it’s all arbitrary, there are too many choices, there is too much content, there is and has always been and always will be, we’re just fish caught in a thousand different nets, we’re just fish, we’re just fish, we’re just fish.



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