Eye contact–the pursuance of it, the direct gaze into another eerie subjectivity–a shared expression in a wild world of errant signals, a shared attention in and for a moment–I don’t think anything roots me to this earth more than knowing that I can serve and witness as ambassador to the shared intuition.

Now, I am clearly as prone to become misguided as every human being on earth, so when I say the word ‘preoccupied,’ I will ask for it to be cleaned of any qualitative lustre. I am a dubious arbiter of anything more than my intuitions and can only act and react to when a context is shared, and even then, if I do not fully believe that a translation could be communed wirelessly between two heads, I may leave a magic to be unexamined, never to be engineered, and a lie to continue its tenure.

I could work rather forthright to create the context necessary for but one message that I think could transform a circumstance to its ‘proper’ boundary and satisfy an ego’s appetite. Hurray!

But the eerie thing about life, and the confounding bigotry to every act of communication, is that we have no real means to justify our actions beyond “Hey, quiet! What is happening is continuing to happen therefore my narration of the happening is happening. Hurray!”

There is a secret self-reference to that–a semantic stop sign on par with Coca-Cola equating itself with happiness. That’s our magic trick! Why do we transmute that shit to dubious tools? THAT BOTHERS ME.

A person, who I may think to be an utter fool for walking passed a free Costco Sample, may be preoccupied crunching the images in their head to cure cancer. They can be on a quest to allow us to continue an existential logic–to, you know, keep us alive–while I am working to find the perfect wine to eat with my Taco Bell. The girl from across the room may be a magnificent testimony to all my preconceived notions of physics necessary to hold my hand completely.

But she may have a boyfriend. And that’s fine. Say the one liner you have prepared in french, hoping she doesn’t speak french and would allow you to translate it to something more complicated after, and let that be the end of it. But have friends that will yell at you if you keep on talking about her.


We are all referencing our preoccupations, giving us a certain trajectory, and at the end of the day the only thing that matters is the facebook post revealing the fruits of our labors, not the whiny ‘WHY DOES NO ONE CARE ABOUT TACOBELL WINE” posts. Or the “LOOOOOOOOOOVEEE MEEE PLEAAAASE” posts.

Calm down. You are real and a winner and can totally find the antecedent to your pronoun.

My advice to everyone is to take on as many preoccupations as you can and to know as soon as you ever possibly could when to move on in the full pursuit of the next one. Fall in love with a room–you can do it! It just takes some nimbleness and a phone number that’s easy to share with people.


You may find, one day, the vision that you will carry with you from moment to moment–THE COMMERCIAL SUCCESSIFICATION–the elemental charisma that adorns your being with the series of thoughts and actions to which you obtained your Oprahtic goal.

But don’t just share that–that’s boring. Share the translations. Share the preoccupations that didn’t work. Make the eye contact, the self reference, and talk about how you changed from one preoccupation to the next.  Then fucking shut up and listen, smile, wonder if this girl in front of you has a boyfriend and try again. Then yell out hurray, no matter what, because you are fucking alive, and being alive is CRAZY, and creating opportunities for the shared experience is great. Hurray!


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