The strange joy of stupidity.
Stupidity, amusing itself. Stupidity, laughing at itself. Quite comfortable with itself. And isn’t that the problem: that stupidity is comfortable with itself?
Drunkenly contemplating it, our stupidity. Drunkenly pleased with it.
This is how we entertain ourselves. This is how stupidity entertains itself, passes the hours.
We have to experience the ache of our stupidity. The fact that it wants to be something else.
I don’t believe that.
What would we talk about, if we weren’t stupid?
We wouldn’t need to talk, that’s the thing. Stupidity is what we do. Stupidity is what holds us together. Stupidity is what we talk about. What we talk from. The twists and turns of our stupidity keep us alive.
Our stupidity display, like the courtship display of birds of paradise. Our stupidity dance. But who are we trying to seduce? Spreading stupidity’s peacock feathers … But there’s no one there to see.
Stupidity’s the only thing we have. The only thing that might save us.
From what?
From knowing our stupidity, of course.
How clever.
What makes us think that we’re especially stupid? Isn’t that a kind of hubris? I mean, why should we suppose that here’s something special about our stupidity? Something that sets it apart?
Are we God’s idiots? The devil’s?
Stupidity isn’t always meek. It isn’t always servile. Stupidity can roar. Can shout. Stupidity has a tempers.
And there can be peaceful stupidity, too. Sweet stupidity, lying on its back, looking up at the sky. Quiet stupidity, lying there in the water, keeping itself afloat.
Work in Progress 