I’m growing a beard.
It’s getting longer by the day. It’s a fuzzball on my chin now, curlycues of hedghog spines pregnant with my DNA. When I run my fingers through it it speaks to me, like a dead twin, intimately, telepathically. How are you today? Prickled, certainly.
Until I get to Japan, it will remain. Once I arrive, the knives will be out. Because I have a job with clients there. Something about paying money that makes people dislike beards. I don’t see how being theirs for an hour for monetary return equates to my having to lay bear my deepest secrets also, or at least seemingly having to do so. Beats the hell outta me if ya ask me.
Anyways, when I’m an artist. I’m going to travel around with nothing but a beard. Swear on buddha’s mother’s grave I do. If only because I can’t really fire myself, and, contra freud jung rank and modern psychoanalysis, I have nothing to hide from myself. Pure destruction.