[the above picture is not Doctor Derelict himself but a symbolic approximation]
[figure looking around, looking to look busy, outside of beverage establishment; clothes in tatters: sad rags, heartbreaking rags; gaze: darting, furtive, to hold one’s children firmly by the hand in passing by and immediate vicinity; odor: beyond the pathetic limitation of words, in a negative way; habitus: derelict, bottom-dweller-type motions, bent downwards by long-suffering years, most likely prone to deranged soliloquies; means of locomotion: dysfunctional wheelchair in gaudy colors, anarchist flag raised in back in style of japanese warrior; present activity: looking about furtively, producing large gob of phlegm into healthy, right hand, inspecting it for possibilites of blood, yellowness, bits of lung, other hobo-medicinal indicators of bad health about which nothing could be undertaken /// this in way of a brief overview of the figure in question which must speak for itself/himself ]
Shuuhsh. I can tell you where I was the first time it happened. Perhaps, certainly, we assume this was the first time that it did happen. Things happen for a first time and then again or never again. The news papers reported that it was the first time, after all it was considered news worthy, jup, there seemed to be something new about it. News papers, much esteemed news papers, without them my existence might be even more cumbersome. As is, they sustain me.
Also, it was the first time in my experience but my experience is limited and distorted. If my experience were to be a witness in a court of law it would be dismissed before even taking the stand. You can look at me and see more than I ever will see of me, the exterior I mean. And yet, yes or no, you see nothing. I have learnt to care not so much about exactly what I see accordingly. I could say then, it was the first time in terms of my own sensorium, my crippled antenna considered it news worthy.
Especially what stood out at the time and every time does: the pervasive calm of those going towards it and the scrambling, blind panic of those moving away from it. The bodies always get gobbled up but even before that, reason goes out of the window and if I look at them, I can tell that those windows are the eyes. Yes or no, I am not sure, I don’t know but I cut up the world into pieces I can chew and digest and eliminate again.
Even the fact-checkers (and who checks on them?) the very reviled factcheckers are on our side in this issue of which time it was and came out on this side to say: the first, it is the first reported incident in the record of facts that we check upon and that thereby become facts. What’s a fact without a factchecker and vice versa?
You are as likely to misunderstand me, as I am likely to misunderstand or simply not listen to you but let it be said at least one time, for the record: my beef with fact checkers is of no personal nature, ad hominem has no hand in this. Jup, I despise the pretence of the existence of facts and thus those who take them to be their profession, well, I will let you do the thinking. Too often now, yes or no, my brains go left when they should really go straight ahead, straight ahead when they should go up and up when they should rest in place. I mean look at the tangled, grey mess, which is called brains: what do you expect! But they serve me well for being myself so you will not find me blowing them out onto the pavement any time soon, at least not yet. It never will happen, I guarantee you. Also look here: I simply do not know how to operate a gun and without money, without clean clothes, without any form of identification, I doubt it would be possible to obtain one. So my brains shall do their bidding, being me, in such tangles.
Shuuush! You will forgive me, though it is not a virtue, the forgiving, it is something that has been come to be called a virtue by those imbeciles who started the fracas in the first place, a clever ploy on their part, I am saying, or rather, I would find it nice if you will accord me lenience for distracting and digressing from the topic of facts. Back in the crepuscule of my life, when I had friends, something keenly resembling the fantasy called “friends”, these so-called friends called me “The Great Digressor”, which they said was my nickname but I took to be a title of Honor. Yes or no, it is up for all and everyone to make up their own sense of things, so we can share it or turn it into golden calves or smash our crania in disagreement. That was how they called me out from among other men “Great Digressor, get your sore bum over here” and I was happy to put my good hand to the wheel and spin it.