Like a monkey making love to a baseboard heater, or a child with his arm stuck in the toilet, our desires are ineffable. We envy crickets, debate whiskeys, captain the cheerleading squad and later microwave our lousy leftovers.


To be saved from this would be a relief, assumed into that great absorbent sky-cotton, petted officially and decked out in the bling that suits us precisely: the infinite hors d’oeuvre. To be absolved not of our derangements nor even of our guilt, but of the blindnesses that come in hiding, to be allowed to resolve into our essential mundanity. Maybe this is why people go to therapy, though I doubt it.