on being
Ontological got me like a motherfuck today.
I was sitting in the corporate park, of a corporation I did not work for, drinking some lemonaide. Lemon. Sugar. Water.
My neighbor, the Old Polish Lady, worked there. I was explaining the nature of HTML, trying to explain the nature—but all she wanted was phenomonologicals. She wanted the crumbly facts, the salt-grain pieces. What did the
do? How to make it bold? What was a meta-tag for?
Then, Ontological the word jumped up and said, “BOO.” She really scared me too, sent the lemonaide right up my nose to do the inside nose burn. Sugar in the membrane.
The problem is I don’t get what Ontological means. Ontological knows it. Knows I use it in a sentence to get a free hot-dog.
Worst was, when I was all down, sopping the nose blood, Ontological moved in close and wispered, “you’re edge is in your genes boy. The writing is in you. Your briar is defiance. The arms that grab you in the night are you. You fight you.”
