I’m going to cook your cerebellum in a large greasy pot. You’ve probably forgotten me by now. I suspect you’re at some obnoxious art party in Chelsea, or maybe watching a foreign flick in lower Manhattan. Or just maybe you’re slobbering at some over-priced vegan restaurant in Williamsburg. Regardless of which borough you’re sniffing around tonight, I will find you.
The cerebellum is the part of the brain that controls muscular activity and balance. It will be very hard to maintain that ‘disheveled sheekness’ when your friends start calling you ‘Twitchy.’
Now I know you’re probably wondering who I am, and how I came to know so much about you. I’m was the blonde in the elevator today. It’s a small elevator, Sir, so surely you remember. Remember the way I struggled with at least ten books? I’m a master’s student, Sir, and I’m working on my thesis. I don’t understand most of those books I was holding. So let me tell you something: when a person is hauling around that many books, you can bet they’re a little edgy. They’re caught up in not-knowing. Did you get the names of those books? They’re very difficult books, Sir. I doubt you’ve read any of them.
In fact, I know you haven’t read them, because you were too busy complaining about how awkwardly I dropped them. For a moment, Sir, in that elevator, I was sorry for that little inconvenience. I was sorry about the way I brushed your Prada jacket with my dingy coat. But apologies are just a tired attempt at reconfiguring time. And right now, time is moving in a straight line. Time, you see, is like a little engine. It hums in the background, like elevator music. But as you know, that sound can become an impossible sound.
You see, the only hope for you or I is to be kind to one another. And right now, I think, kindness requires an equal footing. So I’m going out tonight, Sir, to recover what’s been missing in all the philosophy I’ve been trying to understand. Space, time, desire: these are all remote afterthoughts. Your cerebellum is the only unaswered question.