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On 25 December, 2005, I was inspired by a woman named *Jana* that I only met once at Na Květnici[1] during December of the previous year, methinks, or even of the same year. Since I have begun to see through the *flimsy* partitions between universes, my estimation of time has drifted from its exacting nature into a sort of muddled horse-shoe toss.
I was inspired to type into my livejournal (my surrogate blog at the time) *One Hundred Things About Me*. Throughout the epochs, I've conversed with many concerning personality traits and the *flimsy* border between one's **core**, one's **malleable** cultural / environmental residue, the **liquid** crust wrapping those two, and **vapor** without. The opinion of many, including the jaunty Shambal Brambel, is that the **core** is static. No amount of glory or tragedy can deform it. As for me, I do my best to put chips into it with the pick-axe of *Sweet Entropy*.
1. I am sterile.
Well, isn't everyone, one way or another? I chose to not have children and I have no regrets. I honestly believe my life is better or at least more varied for it. Since I am a fan of diversity in both thought and action, the electricity that seared my *ducta deferens* was a boon.
These days, and most probably throught the majority of my days, I am (and have been) more concerned with intellectual and creative sterility. It is a subtle plague that seeped into *western culture*. I've watched it *mature* all my life. It is a maturity of diminishing returns. Younger and younger, people turn to comfort in stagnation. Routine bares less and less fruit, but nurtures familiarity. Personally, one of my greatest fears is the death of my personal creative process. I've weathered years of aching depression during which this creative process was pushed aside to make room for interpersonal relationships and / or work.
I haven't yet had a *stereotypical* mid-life crisis, and hope I never shall, but I do muse about mortality when I sit back and take notice of the passage of this *flimsy* time. The glimpses of a corpse that one day will be empty of my consciounsess goad me to abandon those aforementioned interpersonal relationships and work. Write or compose, or at least fill tangible or virtual notebooks with ideas, ya cunt.
So, actually, fuck sterility.
2. I have a child that I've never met.
People (mostly women) over the epochs have implied that I am a callous bastard for not being concerned about this point. But dub me what you may, thoughts about the child I conceived in 1993 and his fate never appear.
3. I like wearing non-matching socks.
Living with women (with some well needed rest periods) for the most part of the last eleven years has mostly eradicated this *routine*. However, this particular point illustrates a a part of my **core** that either was installed by genetics or my niggard hatred of the *homefront*.
Of course, I am reminded of Dave. One of his modus operandi of morning (or more frequently, mid-afternoon) ritual dressing was to grab two random argyle socks from a drawer and place them upon his toesies. I hope it is still one of his modus operandi.
I perused a thread on Reddit some weeks, months, years, decades or epochs ago entitled something like *Subtle Ways You Rebel*. Though the course of the thread was more humourous than anything else, it reminded me of the importance of defying *the uniform*. Fashion is a bane. It rapes then buries needs to rise above homogeneity in shallow graves. It uses the industrial file of *ephemeral cultural quirks* to smooth rebellious crags.
Remind myself to continue to **think**. From today, subtly, non-matching socks once again. Don't forget, you leprous slag!
4. I worked in the porn business.
I've written at length about this one.
5. I don't like porn at all.
I've written at a lesser length about this one, which was directly produced by the previous.
6. Genmaicha tea is my favourite drink.
I do not possess any Genmaicha at the moment. I shall rectify that in time, most likely by consuming it in Praha next week. One thing I miss about Praha are *čajovný*. Nothing like them exists in Logroño, or anywhere in Spain that I have experienced.
Christián and I splurge every *centimo* we own constructing one in a bleak *pueblo* in Andalucia. We work until our limbs are scabbed nubs. We sit, night after night, backs slumped against the wall of a dim room filled with hookah smoke and fractured spanish barking. The clientele relieve themselves onto our wobbling forms. We stink of urine and our own festering wounds. We die.
To be continued.
@flavigula@sonomu.club
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