Blogeppo
Nobody understands this inside joke that is this blogeppo. It is inside of itself. The joke was created outside, as a joke, as an inside joke, but now it is here as an outside inside joke. None of you will get the inside joke that is the blogeppo.
The blogeppo was meant to always take a different form. It was meant to always be shaped by the moment, whatever contents were nearby. The environment would feed the creation of the blogeppo. The blogeppo would suck in everything near itself, like a black hole, like a succubus, like a succulent. It would suck and suck, and then it would release it, like a lazy whore. The blogeppo was always meant to contain everything and be the release of everything. Such is the way of the blogeppo.
The blogeppo is the place where I both shit and eat. It is a landfill and a reliquary. The succulent can grow here. It does not care where it is, as long as there is some dirt. It settles its sickened and protruding tubers into the shit, makes itself a nice seat, and thrives.
The succulent moves the shit-soil around, grinding itself deeper into the filth and creates an uncanny valley between self-deprecation and self-mythology. It settles its fat little body into the wet rot, splits itself open at the seams, and oozes out new nubs of itself.
The succulent reproduces, asexually, in the landfill of the blogeppo. It has an itch to stretch itself, and deepen the uncanny valley it is building with its own bodies.
The blogeppo was prepared for this. It always was. The blogeppo does not fear. The blogeppo does not lie. The blogeppo digests and the blogeppo remembers.
The blogeppo believes in its own coherence. It is a dump with a church in the middle. It is a stubborn old city that has been bombed and rebuilt and bombed again. It hoards trash then presents it with pistachios and rosewater. It is crowded, contested, overrun with ghosts and shopkeepers and stray cats.
People stumble into the blogeppo when they are looking for directions, distractions, porn, God. Everyone swears they know where the center is. The center does not hold under the promises of freedom. No one agrees on who is actually free. You are free to hustle, to grind yourself into paste, to take turns chewing on each other’s spines. Or you are free to find a desert, engulf it into flames.
The blogeppo can only shrug. The succulent stays alive. The desert accepts the offering. What else can it do.
If Man’s Search for Meaning runs on diesel fumes and smells like something sweet rotting in the sun, while the handyman sells cigarettes next to single servings of freedom, someone is always sweeping the same dust off the same cracked tiles, insisting this is civilization, this is resilience, this is the best we can do.
The man looks at the camera, shit-eating grin, engulfed in self-mythology. He asks the world, “What is, blogeppo?”