Here’s what I’m thinking: get involved with the masses, go under — you’ll end up discovering yourself. Among others, as others, who not. You’ll be told who you are, who you want to be, all you need. If it doesn’t work out, refunds are refunds — they’re always for sale…as are sales. Call it a revolution, or not, call it whatever you want. We’re trying to figure out what works next. Think about it and get back to me. I’m changing my life, but I’m open.
The explanations seem simple enough, though classless and Forbiddingly capitalized…Spinoza Street’s an infinite street, not that it stretches forever, no, I’m pacing it and myself with these thoughts, stretching afternoons long on metaphysical wander that still call for feet and cold toes: simply, it’s a ring, a street that serpentinely swallows itself, without crossstreet or throughway, and a moat that keeps it an island with its safeguarding freeze. And, as it’s said, if you end up staying here long enough, schnorring what’s necessary to afford your identity, maybe you sell some things of your own to afford yourself others’, the ring ends up seeming so wide, though its width’s strangely as if honestly narrow, that the street seems almost totally straight. Easy, should be. How straight does it seem? Give it up. And of course, the only presence of Spinoza Street is its infamous Market, fairied and storied as the convergence of all cyclical systems: legendarily, how there are no homes here, no schools, neither synagogues, hospitals, cemeteries, nor God forbid churches, just shops, only, stores, really stalls, unremarkable, with the effect that everyone sleeps out in the open, out on the street, in the Market, as the Market, though even then, at night, through its gusts emptying of pocket and heart, and suffused with trashflight, with whirlwinded discard — with a sky entirely dark except for the rise of a lovelost, in the red moon — the Market surely stays open. Forever. But as for the bell hollowly rung time and again, who knows how it’s kept: it signals nothing, is only a bell, merely tolling. Just as advice is the only thing that’s free in this Bourse, the bell’s the only thing that’s not, if that makes any sense…not for sale, not for rental, no money down — though Whose it is, no one knows, even guesses.
People says it’s lawless, without governance, says this Boris Borisovich if that’s still his name the goy he’s still suspectedly talking, and it helps, of course, that I can’t talk back…but I say no, that it’s the culmination of all governance, of all society’s laws, every one — unified at last in a compromise, if you’re free, if your freedom’s amenable. Watereddown, I’m saying. Smelt into One. Either way, the individual doesn’t exist, whether as class or consumer; whether as a true believer impoverished in ideology, or as a cynic whose purpose to keep sane is to keep spending large. Take me for instance. I began as an amateur, a hobbyist, a weekend dabbler in a new doublelife. Traded in to be a professional, then traded up again to become an expert, an expert what, I forget, an expert nonetheless; I was regarded, you know, vetted, peerreviewed and respected, a mind — you don’t believe me? and he produces from his pockets again a forge of documents to prove (relevance, utility) their straw, then asks me to sign for something or other, don’t ask my ask, beseeches then begs me, with the promise of utmost respect for any identity I might manage to organize for myself, to deliver this sheaf of Xs he’s waving in my face to a woman who she’d find me, don’t worry.
Forget it, he’s gone.
