I would like to live in the trees with the chimps. I am not sure that even the chimp-me could beat a baby baboon against a tree. It’s not if a chimp were me, but if I were a chimp?
Take the baby baboon by the feet and swing thus . . .
Meaning lies within, nothing but what is meant; intentionally, I watch an old film of Jane with her monkeys. See Jay watch a film about Jane; see Jane play with her chimps. Hypocrite brother, my likeness, this Self of many selves, another and another and another—old monkey on parade, an image of me I make myself. All things made, how made, I feel the fabric of her dress, a new fiction seeks its generation.
The thread—don’t lose the thread. I am, I declare, An ape of God. I recall having read everything I had read. I wish I had read more Montaigne. What we are, the eyes have it, Medieval English ballads I learned by heart, the texts I have since lost. I was in my early twenties. I used to be able to sing Barbara Alan, verse by verse.
I discovered in university that the world was not post-colonial—a new suit could not change this monkey me into a new man. All by the dreamers of empires again, colonial dreamers still dreaming dreams of master and slave; if everyone in the world would wake up tomorrow white, we would still have niggers—if everyone were black, the same would be true. The futility of considering anything other than what we should do to others before they get to do anything to us has preoccupied our minds as of late. No old barking Nazis banging on your door, received ideas in our new historicism leave us prey to inundation by recurring tides.Without color or religion, we would still have slaves—Minstrel Shows in Rap—Neo fascists now are everywhere, everywhere multicultural and diverse.