Dear Doctor,
My name is Lubbert Das.
Please cut the stone out of my head,
four eyes,
am dead,
and will not disturb the bedspread.
Why not matter? I was asked after the presentation of my analysis. Affect me not its outcome. I remembered to focus sharply on the opaque shell of pretense, not the clinging irritable moral after-sting of some distant rattling chamber. It doesn’t matter to matter what I have seen- evolution happens in the sap of other sapiens. I have observed mutations in other brains, in the neurological shortcuts and contagious plasmas of comfort and curricumulative style reductions. In one case they found him beaten up with half his brains on the floor, so they scooped them up and shipped him to a village in the nearby mountain range. Quite a few brains have passed through my observations and I must protect my livelihood by assuming this role; the small town poly researcher, with favourable access to equipment and the peripheries of high ranking thinkers. People have come to expect certain results – I have partaken in thinning and dumbing out to go better with given flows- to relieve myself in the habitual compartments of my own brain. Most of the clients come to me with brains which follow a standard lapse pattern of organisation. I found a sociologist drinking out of a grotesque goblet glazed by an abused up researcher. The left over emotional crap from the therapeutic properties in pottery for the council’s flatline of breaders, which, anyone who sees what they themselves see, knows it to be the secret probing for the perpetuation of coarse paperbacks on the campus round and round preserved printing presses of new unchecked myth propagating, high steam profiling and celebrity wind whisperers whose names ring like swirling nouveau frames on the poor new riche and lucked out tradesclub dicemen, whose systematic degeneration smashes mirrors from a French collection into a thousand deadly shards of bottomless cerebral prophesies over each others heads in a final dogfight. The social slipper tutts under the “counter intuition. They’d be better off doing accountant tuition.”
Similarly I found that if they were, say, an artist they would categorise into either Art or Non-art thoughts to think about when accessing and applying functions to certain climbs- outright pantheonic or pathetically paradoxical- all how to's to dead set ends. And the same would apply to the research scientists’ conceptions of the universe within video games or music history or child rearing or cyber sex- turned off without prompting; or the bin men’s inability to pick out value from rubbish when leisuring heavy imparement; or policemen’s off duty dislocation against right and wrong, enemy and dinnerparty, re-absorbing plane clothes and the moral uniform – all with dramatic waverage (heaped together purely by dense formal lines of authoritarian ancestry).
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