Dear Second Person,
I will admit outright that my feelings toward you are ambivalent. While you do have the inherent capacity to stun me–and you have stunned me many times–there are times when your words and ways give life to an opaque mycoplasma that spreads over the surface of my eyeballs. In these moments, your merits are obscured.
You are, however, ubiquitous, a thing of many forms, so I hesitate to cast broad judgments. But just when I remind myself that, like the city of Los Angeles or American literati, it’s unwise to allow unsavory examples, however numerous they might be, to illustrate the whole lot, a voice comes from the television:
Discover all the ways your dogs can show off their winter style!
You must understand my resistance to such imperatives (I’ll save my qualms with the exclamation point for a different letter). I don’t even have dogs, and if I did, I imagine I would hate to be told–by the television, no less–how I’m to dress them up for winter. They’re dogs.
But then EL-P cuts in from the stereo:
There’s nothing they would do for you, differently
They’re not even listening
They don’t even glean what we’re existing in
There’s nothing here but love and you
Groveling, look what they’re accomplishing
The systematic gods have all demolished it
But I’ve never felt so brave
As when I’m looking at your face
They can decimate my body
But my heart will not disgrace
They can torture and interrogate
And shackle to my boot
I will gnaw off my own leg
And hop the fuck right back to you*
Do you see why I felt compelled to write you this note? Your potential is indisputable. Still, I sometimes wonder, because at half it is Liverpool 3, Manchester City 1, and you don’t want to miss the second half of this one.
*from “$4 Vic / Nothing but me and you” by El-P