The Dissectionist At Home

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It's coming for all of us.





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But before it gets here, look at these cool trains I have.





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Maybe that's what it's all about.


I remember this poem that a friend of mine I used to know wrote. John Hughes, you still out there?


Anyway, in this poem it was all these people flying in space, falling or being pulled into the sun, where they were consumed. And there was this big, black book and the thing was that each person would scribble something into it as they were falling into the sun, and just before they burst into flames they would huck the book back behind them to the person just a little farther out, who would grab it and begin their own furious scribbling.

As the heat built and the edges of the page began to blacken.

Then they'd throw it back, to a never ending line of folks headed for their destruction.


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Maybe it wasn't the best poem, but it stuck with me.



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Earlier this week I had the uncomfortable experience of seeing myself through the eyes of someone else, someone who kind of knows me, has worked with me, and....wow.

I did not at all like the person they saw in me.


It kind of rocked me back on my heels.



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I mean, I know I'm an asshole and all....but still.



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The thing is, that's who I am to that person. That's who I am to a lot of people, apparently.

It has its own kind of reality to it.



It isn't imaginary.



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Ah, well, joke 'em if they can't take a fuck.


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Namaste.



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