Much of him blames, but part of him forgives. Reflecting, much later, most of him forgives and part of him wishes he could never blame, but ascend and embrace, as an all-pathologizing god, the person’s whole life, worldline, fullness. Do I blame myself for blaming? Who do I say I am? I am a pantomimus, as all divinities are—as you are. No, you say? You think we are not gods? Or, if gods, together only Tlazolteotl, the deity with feces in her mouth.

Think of gods, of the unlimited. Incompleteness is a condition of that perfection, as I see it; it is a condition of the infinite. There is no utopia without plural imperatives, divergent initiatives, new contrarieties, and, tucked just below the heart, a fear of finales and totalities. The god-heart requires the varieties of mundane experience. It is the Renaissance paradox: the imperfection of perfection (and the reverse). 

So, as you imagine my appearance, especially that appearance in the act of writing, please imagine this: three-piece suit: frock coat, waistcoat, and trousers. An immoral amount of chenille pink. Vest of iridescent pink taffeta. Breeches of pink moire. Jabot of silver lace and pink satin ribbons. The surreal baroque glory of Fellini’s Casanova in pink. For I understand us at our happiest: our scent is rose, our grin sunlight, our divinity manifest. God: pantomimus with dandelions in every hand. 

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