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“The Doctor’s Sailing the Cosmic Sea” or “This Boat is Dead in the Words”

I have been reading this book I borrowed from Dan’s father a few months ago. I was in his office and somehow I got offered a book on why the Greeks matter. The book is graphic. Not graphic in the sense that your grandmother should not be allowed to read it; just graphic in its details of the way in which Greeks (mostly the men because to the Greeks only men mattered)lived and fought. I read this book and see so much of myself in it and I wondered as I read it if David (Dan’s father) felt the same way. Is that why he gave me the book or did he just give me the book as a whim because I, like himself, am a history buff (if such a thing exist). The words of the author are harsh and if they were just a little gentler maybe his thoughts and opinions would be something more than his thoughts and opinions. Maybe he would spark a change in vision of ancient Greeks, maybe he could reawaken homoeros in Western culture again, maybe just maybe he would start the revolution so many people so desperately, need.

I type and think about these words and I feel like a Hindu astronaut. I see a multi-versed crisis that will leave me fundamentally at zero and never able to return. I feel divine yet no where to give grace to this divination. I hear the doctor in the background, talking at me rather than too me. He sees me as I am for once rather than as I would like him to see and as he stares at me in disgust as he puts on his coat telling me “little shaman, the world is nothing but change and you are the world here”. I grow displeased as I rethink about those words and the words of Morales and my own grandfather. I wonder if I am still in this half-awake dreaming or have I finally come to a realization which is not about what clothes I should wear or how I should pronounce the words “breakfast” or “battery”. I have come to the conclusion that none of it means anything and living in South Orange Villa is as painfully dull as living amongst the wild bores of Atlanta.

I hear Morrissey lyrics in my head but they are jumbled together: “Let me kiss you…boy racer…I am calling you…crossed armed at the pond… ’cause I am human…and it can’t be my own fault”. They ring and chime with his distinctive tone and yet for once I do not see myself in the words, I see him. I see his world and know that I must change my world because life is nothing if not change.

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