I Tried to Sell My House to Spider-Man But He Didn’t Like the Paint

Citizens, the neat thing about space is there’s so much of it. There’s room for lots of different planets – the planet of the grapes, the planet of the people with eyes on the ends of their toes, the planet of hot babes that are actually a form of fungus which rots your spine, the planet of four-sided triangles, the planet where sheep are green and everything else is the same but a little higher in copper content, the planet of stuff too big to fit in a shoebox except if you cram it a little, the planet where reality TV is a capital offense unless it involves coeds wearing bikinis and oiling up to punch insurance executives in the junk, the planet where bananas taste kind of soapy, the planet of nothing but cilantro, the planet of flying zombie vampire clams, the planet where cats give a crap what you think, the planet of free iPods just for signing up for satellite TV, the planet where Tuesday never comes, the planet where Tuesday smokes a cigarette all the time but has to get up early the next day, the planet where Jodie Foster is President for Life, the planet where you can actually play guitar semi-decently but you have to wear a really cheesy mustache that makes you look like a pervert from the Seventies who’s into key parties, nude surfing, and anatomically correct Barbies, the planet where lava lamps never went out of style and it’s fondue for supper every fucking goddamn night so help me I will kill myself swear to God kill myself if I have to eat one more motherfucking ham chunk dipped in motherfucking cheese, the planet where all disputes are settled by breakdancing and lawyers have to be super-limber, the planet where Bob Dylan sings like Jimi Hendrix and Jimi Hendrix owns General Motors, the planet where radio channels start at 1 and go to 100 but most of them feature Paul Harvey reading selections from the Marquis de Sade, the planet where sandpaper contains tiny fragments of baby armadillo teeth, the planet where skyscrapers are against the law because they just painted the sky dammit, the planet where you can get a new body any time you want for only four or five dollars but if you have sex it voids the warranty and you have to go back to your old body which will most likely be in a landfill with all the other uggos, the planet where Clark Kent is a major asshole and laughs at your puny attempts to resist his tyranny before giving you the Great-Great-Grandmother of All Wedgies, the planet where men wear shock collars, baby oil, and Speedos and women sip espresso from dainty cups made from bronzed tortoise eggs while their men lap water from cheap paper bowls, the planet where Jimmy Page learned accordion instead of guitar and lived a quiet life in Shitswell-on-Straddle, the planet where no one references breadboxes by way of size comparisons, the planet of purple-pleated plummy pointy-pated pundits, the planet where the word “ampersand” is so erotic that you should be on contraceptives before you even think it, the planet where envelope-lickers and convenience store clerks make several times more than professional athletes but are scorned for their crass materialism, and of course the planet where nothing ever tastes like chicken.

From a Turtle’s Glass Eye

Citizens, attend!

Surrealism must never be confused with mere monkeyshines or rudderless rebellion. It is not an excuse to be rude or boorish or hateful. We transgress boundaries to show and embrace the artifice. We defy definition to expand understanding. We are wisdom’s jesters – philosopher-poet-clowns, capering to clarity.

Too many self-styled surrealists rail against “political correctness”. The sad fact is that what they really resent is the need to respect others, which is the cornerstone of discourse and civilization itself. A true surrealist embraces her free will, including the choice of her words and actions. She is not the plow blaming the cut worm, the thief blaming the open window, or the leerer blaming the sweater.

So do not presume to dictate the sensitivities of others. To each his own neurons, dancing entwined in grey matter’s eternal celebration. Live weirdly, but live well.

A Peach? No, A Coffee Grinder

Citizens, there are three unforgivable betrayals: betrayal of life, self, and love.

To betray life is to fail to stay true to the principles that sustain us. To betray self is to fail to stay true to who we are, be we organ-grinders or archbishops. And to betray love is to repay that most generous and precious of gifts with anything less than full reciprocity.

You betray life when you lie.  You cheat your way through an irreplaceable life by casting veils and shadows in the eyes of all around you. You slave yourself to their perceptions, and nothing could be farther from the truth of surreality than mere dishonesty. A lie is a watermelon stuffed with crabgrass seeds. A lie is a freshly waxed car with an engine made of cardboard. Surrealism does not distort the truth like some vulgar trickster – to be true to the spirit of surrealism requires nothing less than the boldest, most critical honesty.

You betray yourself when you do not rise to the occasion of your life. You sleep in and stuff cotton in your ears to drown out the glorious reveille that is each fresh day. You take the tools given you, be they meager or fantastic, and you leave them in the box to rust, dullness, and decay. The music plays, the dance begins, and someone else tangos boldly with the man of your dreams. Surrealism is about painting the bull by the horns, building your moment at the feet of every moment to come, and stretching your perspective to see the sense in nonsense. We of the Collective heartily reject slugabedism and every form of disengagement from the vital business of the self.

You betray your love when you do not repay kindness with kindness. You are given the grace of every breath, and for that you must express your gratitude in eloquent love. It’s not enough to say the words – mere words, in fact, are no more than masks over pimples.  You have to live them. You have to give something back, and it has to cost you something or it means less than nothing. A life lived is a life spent, not saved.