Antkind

by Charlie Kaufman

“It’s not the slipping of time into the future, which I have come to terms with, with which of I am concerned of. It is the slippage of my thoughts, my definitions, my mental landscape that terrifies me.”

What I do, what I give to the world, is that I watch. I observe. I perceive. I take it inside me. In this way, I represent the Universal Feminine. I am not ashamed to be a feminine man. I take creative work inside me like semen. I allow it to impregnate my egg-like mind, to gestate. And what is born is the intercoiling of these two consciousnesses. Without sperm, there is no impregnation, but without the egg, the sperm is useless, hardened into an old sock. I am receptive to true art, to true creativity, but I will not have people like Charlie Kaufman force themselves in to rape my mind. I will claw, tooth and nail. I will name names. #MeToo, Charlie Kaufman, #MeToo.

It’s astounding how quickly I can go from feeling like a girl to feeling like a big boy, but his calling me a man did just that, which oddly makes me feel like a girl. I am proud. And humiliated. I want him to like me. I would be his buddy; I would be his girl. We could be buddies with benefits.

One has to be supremely untalented to fail as a white man as frequently and as spectacularly as you have. It is well understood that mediocre white men fail upwards and that talented women, POC, LGBTTQIAAP folks, and the differently abled (POC variety) must fight tooth and nail for a seat at the table. Consequently we are left with inferior white men running and ruining the world. And what of value have they contributed?

I take the stairs so I can masturbate in the stairwell. I have never masturbated in a stairwell before. Well, once, and it didn’t end well. I vowed never to masturbate in a stairwell again, especially in this the age of toxic masculinity. But I can’t help myself. My shame when I finish is beyond any I’ve ever felt. This is my beautiful nightmare. I masturbate again.

Rocks tell time. Everything. The only thing that does not tell time is nothing. Nothing cannot change—this might at first glance sound like a double negative, some sort of streetish parlance, but of course it is not. Nothing exists outside of time. Therefore, to say that before time there was nothing is a paradox because it puts nothing within the context of time. Nothing exists outside of time, therefore, yes, before time, there was nothing, but also during time, wherein nothing exists but does so without interacting with time. This reminds me of a movie I saw in an abandoned wine bar as a student. The rectangle of screen contained nothing. Not black, not white. Nothing. And since nothing is nothing, it cannot be contained in time or space. Therefore there is no beginning or end to it and I was not witness to it because one cannot witness nothing. If I were able to observe it, it would have been something. Then it was gone. No time, of course, had passed.”

“Sometimes I think my head is so big because it is so filled with dreams.”

The world is always burning.