Friday, January 04, 2008

The Wire

Allow me to introduce my friend, the wire. Chances are you've already met. The wire visits all in due time. Or rather, all visit the wire. However thorough one's planing, however precise one's timing, one inevitably, invariably, eventually finds oneself down to the wire. The wire is the asymptote of failure; the event horizon of survival; the third rail of life: go ever so near, but do not touch. With luck, one's wire encounters are few. With luck, one passes with clearance to spare. I, however, enjoy a luck of a different stripe.

My luck - my talent - is in wire riding. I do not go down to the wire. I go on the wire. I tight-rope-walk the wire. I shimmy and skip and flip and grind on the wire. I straddle the wire. I floss my ass cheeks with the wire. I hump the wire and the wire and I make beautiful love and have beautiful children. I read to my wirelings at bedtime. Then I tuck them into their wire-beds, kiss their wire-heads, and go fuck the shit out of their wire-mother's bunghole. That's right, the wire and me have sloppy anal sex. I'm talkin' messy. And sometimes I let it be on top. That's messy too.

Why do I do this, you ask? Am I a wire fetishist? Am I trying to prove a point? Is this an instillation art piece? No, no, and no. Nearest as I can figure it, the wire is just the most interesting place to be. I could steer clear. I could plan ahead. I could undertake to avoid the wire all together. But I find a crackling 10,000 volt wire, a yawning 20,000 foot precipice, an enclosed space filled with flaming tigers and laser-guided bears, is just a more interesting place to be. Wouldn't you say?

"Sleep is the last resort of cowards." - Me