Primordial: An Abstraction

50

I have lost track of what semester it is. I have lost track of how many semesters I have left. I have lost track of what my field of study is. I can’t remember if I’m a student or a professor, a self or an other, a subject or an object, an Oversoul or the Underneath. Am I married? Do I own a house? Do I believe in God? When was my last meal? Have I ever hired a bodyguard? Do I care what people think of me? Do I write good books? What is the square root of the angle of my disposition? What happened to the tendons in my index finger? Do I go to my classes on a regular basis? Where is the men’s room? Over there? Is that my 1966 Fender Bandmaster guitar amplifier? What has become of the guitar itself? Bass players worry me. I always have the feeling that they really want to be involved with a cello. But is it wrong to desire the cello above all else? Why must cortisol, epinephrine and norepinephrine pour into my bloodstream during moments of extreme panic? Can I have some more wine? Where did my copy of the latest issue of The Journal of Bone and Joint Surgery go? And the antelope? Is utopia possible or are we destined to endure the bogeys of nomad subjectivity and social Darwinism forever? Why do my armpits sweat all day long? Why wouldn’t my students ever tell me when my fly was open? Why do I get good pumps during some workouts and bad pumps during other workouts? Can I have some more wine? Shawty! Does that professor like me? What’s my grade point average? Is mankind proud of me? As a child, did I kill a bullfrog by hurling it against a brownstone with a makeshift trebuchet? Or did I merely hurl it into a pond? Given sufficient velocity, the frog explodes either way.