Stare off into the middle, of the meadow, in the rearview mirror, and say it three times, I dare you. Who am I? Who am I? Who am I? I’m Plato’s Socrates sparring with Sylvia Plath starring as all of the solipsists. I’m the tip, tip, tip of history’s iceberg, but half, half, halfway around the “Clock of the Long Now.” I’m on the wrong side of forty, afternoon drinking, with a bevy of fact-snacks and a penchant for the absurd suffering of words. I said “suffer,” but meant “torture.” I meant “aphorism,” but thought “axiom.” I can’t think “ideation” without thinking “suicidal.” I’m a wizard news-watcher talking myself in and out of profound panic. I’m a Barthesian who can lower his heart-rate by increasing my jouissance. I’m wrestling’s The Undertaker listening to classic Townes Van Zandt’s “Waiting around to Die.” Every supposition starts “Alas, poor Yorick” and ends IYKYK. Just ask Elisa. She’s the rightful heir to the magic 8-ball and master of disaster of the internet of things. Normal Distance by Elisa Gabbert (Soft Skull Press, 2022).
