I bicycle by Cafe Oto and a man is cracking open geodes on the concrete. Around the corner a woman with pink hair is posing with a large pink dildo.
At the Dusty Knuckle someone named Agnes has evidently abandoned their sandwiches and a young woman with a deep voice calls out her name repeatedly like blows with a heavy boot to my ribs.
A person goes by on roller skates with big headphones on. The way they are moving, it looks like they are listening to the same Emahoy Tsegué-Maryam Guèbrou piano music that I am listening to in my headphones.
I think they mistake my staring for interest and they come circle me a few times.
The subway signs chastising people for staring are really awful.
The Jubilee should really be about making Elizabeth ride the Jubilee line all day with its hellish clamor and feel shameful for letting her eyes explore the world.
A person stands beside me while I type and looks in the same general direction, signing with their hands and mouthing words until I take out my AirPods and then they smile and we both make a ginger shrug towards each other and they walk away.
I bought the AirPods because the young genius at the apple store told me everyone loved them for tuning out the sounds of London. Ben calls the Jubilee line the Xenakis line. And doesn’t take his child on it because the noise upsets them so much.
I reasoned they were cheaper than therapy and left with the noise canceling headphones, which at first made me feel sociopathic and now causes anxiety when I don’t have them.
I didn’t use them at all when I was by the ocean. Unless it was for important phone calls.
I get the sense Silicon Valley won’t be happy until they control what goes in and out of every one of our sensory vectors. And they wont be happy then.
A man leans in and piercing the noise canceling, propositions me about some balloons and laughing gas.
I thought immediately of Jalal Toufic in a Ralph’s supermarket on Wilshire reading Time.
If you tickle us, do we not laugh? I, for one, don’t, and not because I am depressed, but because I find this historical period largely so laughable that were I to start laughing I am afraid I would not be able to stop. I remember how when high on marijuana my ex-girlfriend would giggle virtually at everything on and on. I never had this kind of extended laughter on the few instances I smoked pot. Yet I am sure that were I to start laughing in my normal state of consciousness, my laughter would certainly surpass hers. As for her, there was no danger of her starting laughing and not managing to stop, dying of it: she did not find present-day societies that laughable. All I ask of this world to which I have already given several books is that it become less laughable, so that I would be able to laugh again without dying of it—and that it does this soon, before my somberness becomes second nature. This era has made me somber not only through all the barbarisms and genocides it has perpetuated, but also through being so laughable. Even in this period of the utmost sadness for an Arab in general, and an Iraqi in specific, I fear dying of laughter more than of melancholic suicide, and thus I am more prone to let down my guard when it comes to being sad than to laughing at laughable phenomena. The humorous thinker Nietzsche must have been living in a less laughable age than this one for him to still afford the sublimity of: “To see tragic natures sink and to be able to laugh at them, despite the profound understanding, the emotion and the sympathy which one feels—that is divine.” In a laughable epoch, even the divinities are not immune to this death from laughter: “With the old gods, they have long since met their end—and truly, they had a fine, merry, divine ending! They did not ‘fade away in twilight’—that is a lie! On the contrary: they once— laughed themselves to death! That happened when the most godless saying proceeded from a god himself, the saying: ‘There is one God! You shall have no other gods before me!’” (Nietzsche, “Of the Apostates,” Thus Spoke Zarathustra). At this point in history, can one still laugh on reading Nietzsche, Beckett, Thomas Bernhard? Has this age not deprived us of a major facet of these works: their humor? Can present-day humorous people still find Richard Foreman’s work, or for that matter my early work humorous—without dying of that? All funny people in laughable periods are not humorous enough; to find the most humorous people in such a period one has to look among the serious, who need this seriousness not to expire in laughter. In this respect, I reached a critical point on June 20, 1996. I was standing in a fairly long line at a checkout counter at the Ralphs supermarket on Wilshire and Bundy, Los Angeles. Amidst the many magazines on the adjoining rack, I saw the current issue of Time. Its cover story was: “America’s 25 Most Influential People.” Flipping through the pages to get to the section in question, I was suddenly seized by an apprehension verging on anxiety: that starting to laugh on reading some of the listed names I would not be able to stop, even my aroused seriousness proving this time inadequate to do the job as a defense mechanism. Four months later, I still do not know whether the intense apprehension I felt then was warranted. But from that day on an even more heightened vigilance against starting to laugh has become one of the salient features of my life.