Whisperin’ Jim came by today, said he wanted to play him some bill-yards. Instead, we ended up talkin about the brevity and tragedy of existence over this here bottle a tequila, now empty. For some reason, Jim had it in his consarned head pod that life’s a hopeless dogpile, and the best we can hope for is ta duck the worst of the crapstorm. Bein a member of the Order of Quasi-Approximates, I hold to the belief that life is more or less a kind of almost thing. Neither here nor there, fish nor fowl, boots nor beer. Everythin’s half-formed, half-realized, half-nuts; take a look around ya and tell me ya don’t agree. And maybe we’ll experience the other half someday, and all this garbage’ll make sense or at least it’ll be less nonsensical. We might all be surprised.
After our talk, Whisperin’ Jim spread open his chest cavity and out popped Darnell, this li’l lifeboy that keeps ol’ Jim’s organs tickin and ticklin. Darnell said in his garglin kinda voice that he agreed with me, there had to be more to it all. Lookin around at the beet red wiry roots of the ingrown trees, I said you got that right, buddy. Maybe the other half of our reality has blue ingrown trees steada red. Maybe the squirrelsquitos got a neon green proboscis stead of a neon orange one. And then there’s our one emotion, rishiga, the feeling of solidity; maybe that’s a feeling of intangibility in the other half a the univerge.
So tonight, I been thinkin. What if that other half a reality exists and is aware of us? What if even now, as I write this in my own exotic fluids, someone else on the other side a the curtain’s extrudin a very different side of the story on their piezo-electric hardshells? What would they think a all this boozin Whisperin’ Jim an I do every interval with Darnell and his own inner chestpup Queeg? Would they unnerstand what we been through these past seven awarenesses, or would they turn away an say how inappropriately cartilaginous our gag reflexes have comported their attitude/lyricism modules? And what about the world bubbles fizzing always around us, rising from the electric yellow up-ground and sailing downward, then popping with the sweet shrill squeals of released pressure. Each planet swarming with barely visible bug-specks in ant farm formation, all bursting into the ether when the razor breeze slices through their watery, craggy globelands, spraying them into eternity as we sing the ancient “Wish upon a bursting bubble” song. Maybe, in that other half a reality, they sing the same song, but in reverse. Wouldn’t that be somethin to hear, Whisperin’ Jim?