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“Ahhh…those memories of Sonny Liston,”, I thought, as I slid on my crankcase-soaked jeans on the linoleum once again and, getting up, stammered to my kitchen to fix coffee. The journey would be a hard one – yes, many hard miles, on hard gravel roads. Of course, I hyperbolize. The journey to my kitchen was much shorter in reality. I had conjectured that the state of my life was as it really existed but it appeared not so as I imagined that its wider definition which really included everything that had been and was currently whether or not I observed it or comprehended it was a still further definition which included everything I’d thought existed or every would and any philosopher or mathematician that I ran into who had dimbly and atavistically chanelled Aristotle or Plato or Wittgenstein could’ve made a distinction between thought corresponding to my reality and my coherent abstraction (thoughts of things that are imaginable but not real) and what I could ever rationally think. Sonny Liston, my memories of him, had become a kind of shibboleth. Yes, yes – I know – shibboleth is not the right word. Mantra. Are you happy now? Can I now use shibboleth, and you and I now know that it’s not the right term, but can we use it as a kind of password for mantra?

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“Yes, yes – I think I understand,” I said, but I really didn’t, really, my mind clogged ambiguously and cogged jaggedly and intermittently and haphazardly – yes, haphazardly, the onlookers reported to the authorities later, when they, the authorities, were taking their statements in the sadistic dusk, that growing darkness of the gathering madness, the spectacle too much for words, yes too much, too much. There was this one spectator, a pig-faced man, overweight, with circular sunglasses, sweating profusely even though it was quite cool, who gaggled verbosely to all in earshot, drawing grotesque analogies and gesticulating in a way most repulsive and repugnant, as if he and he alone were fit to characterize the happening as if it were his own little private fiefdom, like some petty despot Leopold in his nauseating Congo, enslaving and torturing the natives, squeezing rubber trees shamelessly and avidly like some gluttonous drunk, visioning his bureaucratic hell like it was a charm that could be controlled by he and he alone. The truth is, I had no motivation to understand all this jabbering gibberish – no more than a turkey is motivated to understand why his head is about to be chopped off. OK, I’ll admit this analogy is a bit severe. Bur decapitation *is *severe in its finality, in its *closure*, in its zero-sumness. I don’t thing *zero-sum* makes a whole heap of sense here, but you get my meaning, my* gestalt*. I am irritated to the point of criticality at pettiness, especially when it comes to the kind of burgeois bureaucracy that we’re subjected too much too often in our over-regulated, dumbed-down society, a society where pablummy infotainment passes for culture, where *American Idol* has replaced Dostoevsky. You get my point. Where can I get some napalm?

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