JIM'S THOUGHTS AT THE ACROPOLIS

I am a victim of post-modernism thought Jim. Jim was on his August vacation and had decided to go with Julie to Greece. Actually, it. Jim's post-modern conundrum, was a whole heap kit and kaboodle more complex; Jim was actually prey to something more like post-post-modernism, and what's more, he was infected by so many "post-" prefixes attatched to "modernism" that if one were to write "post" from now til billlions of millenia after doomsday, one might get the idea of his viral infiltration. Jim realized that this affliction was actually conservatism incognito. Like a snake eating its tail he told himself. Once, he caught a bass in a lake in western New Jersey. After that, he caught a frog and put them both in the bottom of the boat. He caught the frog with a net, and once he de-hooked the fish, it was still very much alive. He looked down at the fish, and noticed that the frog was gone. On closer examination, he noted that the tips of the frog's hindlegs were protruding from the mouth of the bass; that in its frenzy upon being snatched out of its aqueous milieu, the fish had swallowed the frog. Retrospectively, this struck Jim as a perfect example of what could come after modernism. Well, not really perfect he thought; more like imperfect and flawed and untidy, unsettled and addled and driftingly awry, a fitted metaphor for the way his brain now functioned, which was to say decidedly unhinged, moorless, floating wantonly in some infinite and eternal and ceaseless witches' cess of nonsequitorial bourn and sputtering brimstone, a node of sociopathic infirmity and abnormed preserevation, of tightly coiled mortality with a mainspring in life's and orgastic breakdown, his green light at the end of Daisy's dock a sputtered smoke-ring of being stuck inside of Mobile with the Memphis blues again, of Big Daddy's mendacity and Willy Loman Yossarian-isms, of a blue state/red state/purple state filibusterings where he thought he'd go back to New York City where he might find Angel who just arrived there from yon coast, her Harley-Davidson's cornucopial whine attuned to an FM station where William Burroughs was the morning rush hour DJ doing some dead-end repartee-cliche with Allen Ginsberg about being mired in relief's lack and directionless boot-heels.