Six years later, he had opened a new Facebook account. He changed his name to Hakon. He deleted the old one.
Hakon had been out of the data shelter for several years, divided between being in the hospital and living at his parent's home.
Now he was moving into his own place, an apartment for people like him. I didn't make it through art school without a mental illness! He would say. But it would take several years to have finally learned this virtue. And to have reminded himself this way yet again careful. Pure anti-logic propped up in his memory. It was afloat. Air alt. Like I could feel the air in my brain. Confined to this space of time metabolizing. Further than an Ace word. Further than Nyclepi. Than Love.
Without Logic you can't have anti-logic. The chicken came first.
What Logic would a chicken have, for an egg has no logic.
The chicken answers, "No, it is Logic. An egg is Logic. It has Logic because it is an object created. By me! By the Logic of Heaven!"
The chicken had more logic than the egg, and so it had to have come first because lesser Logic cannot be produced without a Greater Logic to have produced it. The chicken had been around longer, to have this much Logic.
"The egg is a simple logic so it had to have came first. Spontaneously. As by a God it appeared instantly. And that was it. Life began," said Hakon.
"An egg couldn't appear," said the chicken, "to have instantly whole. It's too complex. It had to came from somewhere."
Hakon closed the thought experiment.
However he was still experiencing Anti-logic, not that it was a bad thing, but a helpful occurrence to have been illogical at some point.
He lived at the top of the building.
The other people living in this apartment building, all nice people, were friendly, gracious, kind of wavy. Like ocean inhabitants surfaced to see a passing boat. The feeling of the waves produced therein.
Hakon was an Orca. Killer whale.
There was a Starfish, (suicidal)
Manta Ray & an Electric Eel, in Love
A Sea Lion, way out in the water far from land
A Dolphin, ready to catch you if you fall
And a Swordfish. Knight of the Seven Seas.
Angel of Civilisation, let us swim together. For the Ocean has taken over the Earth. We see faces like fat-faced fish, swimming around, across the intersections. The lights turn Red. Yellow. Green. Like gems. We are rich. We own public property. We don't need jewelry with this tiara above our heads.
Give it to the Orphans.
How do you remind yourself you are alone, with so many friends to point at?
Was his thought.
Anti-logical Hakon.
The anti-logic of having friends was there because of his Desire for an Intimate Partner.
Hakon went to the pubhouse. The Pubhouse. Painted black inside. Decorated black. Brick walls. A good Irish bar. Liquor bottes of all colors. Obviously. Contemplate your sadness here. Lay out every detail and examine them. I want the best for my family. We have not faired so well. My brother's and sister's bounty, may it be blessed. My mother and father are retired.
The bartender spoke French and English. Sports was playing on the televisions. He reflected on drunkenness, as true drunkenness is always a reflection on itself.
A clown engine.
A young and beautiful clown engine in his soul. Dragon's fire inside of it. A clown engine is a fantasy creature. It generates jokes. How? There is a clown inside it.
As would be my fantasy for clowns are lost souls these days.
Fairies, all of them.
That's how the clown car flies.
And imagine having royal clowns. What an art of democracy that would be. The Royal Bard Clowns of Canada.
A theory developed in Alberta, the gay wild rose country.
And what do different clown noses mean?
Pink, like wild rose, princess of Canada.
Green, the healing herb.
Red, the Classic mistake.
Blue, a religious clown.
Purple, emphasizing gay or gayness.
Mirror-surfaced, sees everything around him.
Cross-eyed.
Bare-backed.
A romantic kiss.
There need to be more female and male clowns. Non-binary clowns. Gender fluid clowns. Scientific clowns.
Who am I, in a pubhouse, he mused. Just a gender-specific clown. A mirror of identities. An Ocean phenomena. A seahorse. An axolotl. A barfolotl.
I will be a clown when I feel like it.
What a tone.
It was simple. Rude.
It had to have been correct.
What's he doing? Is he looking for Intimate Partners? Are they all male? (Yes).
And that's his plot. To find clown partners.
To put them in order.
To tell them to each other in further and further in detail. To see them in each other. Like swans.
Confined to having only one personality, they met every day to enjoy several, and hopefully to develop their own.
The worst nightmare if you think about it, that it would be only told in one sentence like that.
Or was that the heart of it?
Let me be other than that.
Confined to having several personalities. They mix and clash in my art. But Art is a Discovery of the Self. Form and Logic are not separate. Logic has form. Not a Chicken. Not a Halo on.
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