“An insightfully provocative drama that freshly addresses all the major human conundrums; an unforgettable evening of theatre,” is what the advertisement promised. “A tediously pretentious rehashing of long discredited sophomoric, mental caterwauling; a complete waste of time,” countered a revered reviewer, and one man who somehow ended up on planet Earth mused: “No doubt I am in for an interesting time to be in a place where criticism passes for intelligence; a comment which, while contextually comprehensible, is a bit excessive once one recognizes the true quality of those human activities not directly connected to food, sex, or getting in out of the cold.”
To a man with the always-open, cold blooded, impartial view of a fish I, the constructional facts of this planet are plain. There is the hard reality of what you find already here, stuff just laying around on, and in the ground stuff to eat, stuff to drink, stuff to heat and forge into other more useful stuff.
Then there is another kind of, non-laying-around reality, which was not already here before humans appeared; stuff that now exists only because men’s minds made the stuff up. Plays, sciences, symphonies, religions, philosophies, and stories of all stripes, all the stuff that humans use to fill up the times between eating, fucking and sleeping. Stuff that can be quite entertaining, but stuff whose history, ordinary minds ignore.
A man with that non-standard longing permits his thinking to do so at his own severe expense, n that he will waste his energy attempting to blow away smoke dreams of windmills, and correct the voices that speak for made-up stuff.
Dirt is real – all ideas are made up – the ideas that afterward proclaim to be of supreme significance. (Such as ideas purporting to pinpoint man’s origin, and to describe reality after his death).