Citizens, attend!
This world is full of cruel truths. We are each of us born to die. The finest wines can give you the worst hangovers. A snail can never know the pleasure of a manicure.
Most of us do not like to consider these things. They rob us of some small portion of the joy allotted to us, like a cloud’s shadow cast on the beach. But a good citizen is an aware citizen. She is not paralyzed by her awareness of the often savage truth – on the contrary, she is energized by it, inspired to more meaningful living.
Such is the ethos of the White Linen Pants Collective. We will not let life deter us from living. The empty void holds no threat, and the darkness no menace. We will make shirts of popcorn and dance at the moon.
The only certainty is that certainty is illusion. One minute you’re fine: you’re walking down the street, enjoying the sun and the fresh air and the smiling faces all around you. And then a rhinoceros drops out of the sky with a syringe of poison in it’s teeth, and it’s either you or that baby in the stroller. Sure, the baby’s not yours. And it’s kind of ugly. But it’s a baby, so you do the right thing. You face down the rhino, but it’s too quick and you’ve got the syringe in your neck. Lights out, game over.
This is the world we live in: nature, red in tooth and claw. Events do not always proceed in an orderly, predictable fashion. Winter follows summer, and then it’s spring again – or is it? The horses won’t tell you, and you feel abruptly awkward in your pretty little frock. Maybe it’s because you’re a man.
We can’t be sure of anything in this world. You think you’re a rich man, but the next thing you know you’re a hobo. And the price of a can of beans is suddenly the unattainable summit of extravagance. You ride the rails, scribbling your beautiful poems on newspaper margins with a golf pencil. You avoid the roving gangs of unemployed philosophers and their derisive metaphysics. Occasionally you see an airline stewardess wearing nothing but but cherry blossoms, and she offers you hot green tea in an old shoe.
Or you’re minding your own business, enjoying your weekly game of backgammon with the Pope, and out of nowhere a battalion of paratroopers storm the building. They sing Lithuanian folk tunes as they crush your collection of snow globes with their rifle butts, they hand you some pamphlets about rescuing greyhounds, and they leave with your snickerdoodle recipe tattooed on their rock-hard abs. Did the Pope cheat while you were distracted? Perhaps, but that’s still a toad crouching on your hearth with Grandpa’s dentures in its mouth.
No one likes to think about these things. Your mind, ever vigilant in its self-appointed role as arbiter of the arbitrary, will not let you remember the time a hula girl seduced you and tricked you into filing teacups. You remember her seductive belly, the sensuous sway of her hips, the sweet taste of coconut lingering on her breasts. But you forget all those teacups, ordered and stored on rack after rack in her immense dusty basement. You forget the way your hair turned blue, fell out, and was replaced by daffodils and lemon butter.
No one likes to think about these things. But they happen.
