Thinking this morning about Subcomandante Marcos, self-conscious poststructuralism on the world stage, at least off Broadway, it's very strange, wondering when we'll see more of it, could be fun.
Too much of people not taking their own intellectual tendencies seriously, talk a good game, but when it comes down to tacks, they're still in the 18th century, which, as far as society goes, at least, is, frankly, prescientific. And magical thinking = no real magic. Let's make the magic happen. It's a gas, it's a bag of tricks.
We are victims of a politics without wit, victims of ourselves, our own stupid self-obsessed fastidiousness. Less Felix Ung(e/a)r, more Felix the Cat, get me? We're in a fix.
Toe still hurts, coffee surprises and delights as always, Peretz is sleeping on the folded out futon, halfway in a sunny spot, legs extended.