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.

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.

Host Garry Shandling: “Hoop-de-doodle, everybody! Welcome to tonight’s episode of ‘Making People Cry’. I’m your host, Garry Shandling. Tonight we’ll be hurting a jerk, a Hooters waitress, a little old lady, and some Cub Scouts. Let’s get this party started!”

Cut to a cantankerous-looking middle-aged man walking down a city street.

Shandling (voice-over): “This is Malcom Hayes. Malcolm is 45 years old and lives in a studio apartment with his cat Mr. Bitters. Malcolm works as a plumber, which mostly involves fishing things out of toilets that should never have been put in toilets.”

Cut to Malcolm in a bathroom with a homeowner. The homeowner is looking sheepish while Malcolm berates him for flushing a tricycle.

Shandling (voice-over): “But tonight it’s Malcolm’s turn to get wet. Let’s watch!”

Malcolm comes home to find Mr. Bitters’ back legs sticking out of his toilet. There’s an exquisitely penned note taped to the lid: “Deer Malcolm, I am sick of ur stoopid stinky hands. I hate u.” Malcolm collapses in sobs at the loss of his only friend. Garry Shandling bursts in, laughing.

Shandling: “Haha! Don’t worry, your cat is fine. He’s watching this back at the studio right now. And to make it up to you, here’s a $10 gift card for the nearest Hallmark store.”

Malcolm: “So whose cat is this?”

Shandling: “Just some stray that no one ever loved.”

Cut to a little girl in a suburban home.

Girl: “Mommy, where is Mittens?”

Flashing graphic on the screen reads “DOUBLE SLAM!!!!” Cut to commercial.

Make no mistake: this world is locked in a struggle between the staid and the strange. The Collective intends to lead the charge into the enemy lines, facing down law and order with laughter and joy.

Let each day be your battlefield. Fill the hours with wild wonder. Pickle your shoes! Teach your Sasquatch to swing! Spend a day certain you are a sorcerer in a world made of pudding. Fill a saucer with relish and feed it to snails.

The only day wasted is a day spent bound to the ordinary.

Self-pity is the tweezers dropping the fly in the ointment. Self-pity is ten gallons of ice cream for breakfast. Self-pity is the shadow of the clouds that bring torrents of cleansing rain. Self-pity is the friend that never calls until he’s drunk, broke, and in jail.

We all hurt. We all feel shame and pain and fear. And the weight of all that feels like Ossa on Pelion sometimes. But we are each Atlas, strong enough to make moles of our mountains.

Death is the only thing you don’t come back from. Death is the only defeat. Who chooses not to rise chooses not to breathe.

It’s easy for us to beat ourselves up. There’s no challenge in an opponent who won’t fight back. There’s no glory in victory over a spoiled, self-indulgent child. You may as well play checkers with your cat.

There are examples all around us. Trees survive lightning, fires, and droughts with less resources than the least of us. And as tempted as we may be to stop, take root, and wait for troubles to pass around us, each kind thrives best according to its nature.

We make meaning because we need it. We do not accept the hand-me-down dictates of old. We dance on the knife-edge, and no amount of denial will ever blunt that blade.

Take the last chance as your first step. Accept no substitutes for who you have to be.

Think big! Bite off more than you can chew!  Drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead. Crush your reluctance between the hammer of your will and the anvil of your destiny. Cast your bread upon the water and make a sandwich from the bag. Someone upstream will provide the chips.

Eat cookies for brunch. Read a magazine backwards while translating it into medieval Portuguese. Build several dozen Windex-spewing robots and ship them to your friends.

Sing with the monkeys! Sing! Sing! Dance with the skeleton of Frank Lloyd Wright.

After much careful meditation, ascend to a higher plane of being. Check for free pizza. If none, come home.

Teach a watermelon to gargle. Email the video to your favorite celebrity.

Make today the day you make today your day!

It is as if some culinary commissar had issued diktats in favor of bland homogeneous pap. “Food should be colorless and inoffensive,” say the vast herd of restaurateurs. “It should have scent, taste, and texture, all standardized for maximum efficiency of consumption. But it should not taunt the blind nor tempt the innocent with riotous hue, luxurious sheen, or other visual debaucheries more appropriate to the harlot’s bed than the dining table.”

We of the Collective could not agree less. Bring forth a profusion of Day-Glo orange meats and shocking blue grains. Let the dance of spice and savor titillate the eyes as it does the tongue.  No more meek sandwiches and salty crisps forgotten the instant they’re consumed. Declare war on your sleeping senses! Rouse them from torpor with every kind of shock and surprise!

The sensual is the surreal, citizens.

Although we have been less active of late (some might call it hibernatory), we of the Collective are not lost. We have not abandoned our cause. We still fight the strange fight, crusading for bridges made from Cheerios and all the girders you can eat for breakfast. Surrealism will advance, and all the naysayers and ne’er-do-weirds of this world will not prevent it.

We are sworn to seek the strange in every sense. We are dedicated to the trans-rational and the post-logical. Our mango-flavored crusade will continue.