“Formally speaking, of course.” Of course, of course, Junto and his of courses, they were endless. Junto, the perfect and eternal metonym of humanity’s assumptive capability. Junto, the bespectacled parasitic flower of uninspired perception. Of course. Always of course.
“Of course,” smiled Brique, playing with a spoon in her whisky soda, listening to the steady clinks of steel tapping around a glass cage, hypnotized by the shit-brown whirlpool she generated in the clutches of her fist, the tiny pieces of ice like diamonds caught in the vortex of a tornado.
“Speaking of it formally,” she began, not at all interested in what she was saying, wanting only to throw a wrench into Junto’s train of thought, “Doesn’t allow for the intimacy required to truly gain an understanding of it, though.” She had the vague feeling that she should be somewhere else. No where in particular, just not here with Junto. There was nothing worse than being stuck alone with Junto. She raised the glass to her lips and the liquid pooled into her mouth and felt cold as she swallowed it and then there was a burst warmth in her chest. Nothing more monotonous than Junto. She burped. Nothing more dulling to the senses. The drink was strong and helped her cope with her gloomy mood.
“Well, I mean, you have to peel back the layers,” responded Junto, making a limp-wristed gesture, opening his palm to the ceiling in a way that made Brique think of a waiter serving a dish of air, “But you start with the first layer, you know. That’s the only place you can start. Just like the way it usually is with people: you meet them formally and then continue on from there. But the first meeting is almost always formal, of course.” Brique finished the rest of her drink.
“That’s the . . . Junto, I don’t care. I really don’t. We’re trying to patch up a hole with ice cream.” She stood up to go to the kitchen where the whisky sat on a counter.
Two thirds whisky, one third coke. Four pieces of ice. Stirring it all with the spoon, sparking the symphony of anguished clinks, the whirlpool of liquid shit, the diamonds twirling around in the tornado.
She walked back into the living room. Junto was playing with a rubik’s cube in his armchair. “It’s these dreams” he says without looking up from the cube, “That I can’t seem to untangle myself from. Some conniving spider built his web right in front of the light and I’m the moth that didn’t see it. And the web, of course, it’s of this sticky and highly irrational silk. Simultaneously irritating and pleasant, like scratching an itch or taking care of the utility bills.” Brique made herself comfortable in the armchair opposite Junto and took a long drink from her whisky.
“Junto, you can’t just assume it’s an irrational silk. Maybe sticky, but not simply irrational. There’s a fundamental logic to everything, even to dreams. It’s just not as reassuring as the laws of physics, or our chemical theories, or biology. It’s complicated and fluid and there’s no container for it.”
“A fundamental logic to everything? Sounds like you’re making the assumptions.”
Junto held the cube up to the light. His glasses glinted and Brique thought of a blind philosopher and she giggled.
The whisky was making Brique feel lighter. The room had softened. “I was just demonstrating how your assumption could easily be made irrelevant by another assumption.”
“You’re covering your ass. You’re just as assuming as I am. Admit it.”
Brique laughed again. “I was thinking earlier that you’re like a bespectacled parasitic flower of uninspired perception,” she said.
“I like the rhythm. Parasitic flower, of course, makes no sense.”
“Think about it. Chop the words up like vegetables. Cook them into something. Use your imagination, no matter how irrational it might make you feel.”
“An exercise in futility. Parasites and flowers are two separate entities. They have nothing in common that I can think of. . . other than the fact that they are both of the earth, of course. Describing a flower in terms of a parasite . . . doesn’t add anything to the flower and the incongruity only blurs whatever point you’re trying to make.”
“Of course . . .” laughed Brique. “Cut it out already. There’s no of course. I hate all you . . .” she made a grandiose sweeping motion with her arm, “materialists, scientists, visionless bird watchers. Assumptionists.”
“I’m just starting at square one. A formal introduction with reality. It’s where you have to start if you want to get anywhere. Reality will get a bad first impression of you if you establish yourself on such facetious grounds right off the bat.”
“Better to make a mundane comment on the weather to break the ice first,” Brique said sarcastically.
“If the situation requires it,” conceded Junto.
“All I was trying to tell you is that you look like a flower and you exhibit parasitic traits. Ergo, Junto, you’re a parasitic flower.”
“Of uninspired perception, of course.”
“Exactly.” Brique took another drink from her whisky soda. “Of uninspired perception . . . of course.”
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