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The blank page is a whore, its sluttish margins just begging to be ruled. Clem settled into his beanbag and began to write in his slanted left handed script: “We who find in nature all which we have found lacking in society know of a gorge near Torrington where dead teenagers memorialize car wrecks. Their tombstones’ sculptor’s wife, dressed in crushed Valium, serves dim sum. She plans her guests’ agony down to her panties, where a fell vibrator tunes in a bass frequency so slow it only tweaks her clit once a week. Her pleasure factor: 3.279.” What was the point? His own pleasure factor was headed south of 2. He slouched into his beanbag. The big clock down in the dining hall struck the hour. He jumped out of bed and went down to the dining room. Hansen was there, holding forth about psychometry and the doctor was nearly having a fit. “This is what they call science!” the doctor cried, wrinkling his little eyes and stomping his boot. “Buck-toothed gawkers, indigent peasants and imbeciles fumbling into an auditorium to hear what? An endless pitch about the measurability of personality, the statistics of pleasure! But isn’t this the thinnest pabulum? The sort of weak spiritual gruel peddled by arithmeticians and Charlatans? The picture paints itself: a wan youth with gaunt pale cheeks sits on a beanbag under a single bare light bulb. And there, there he puts pen to paper, scribbling with his sinister hand inanities about egometrics and fingering a cephalometer with his right. He imagines the timeless human tale of Love can be dismissed with calipers, tape measure and standard deviation alone! Well maybe so! But then what? Huh? What then!?”
Date Written: April 12, 2005
Author: Ewan Snow
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