The Annals by Petronius Jablonski

Author:Petronius Jablonski [Jablonski, Petronius]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: uploadable
Publisher: Chandelier Press
Published: 2016-11-16T00:00:00+00:00

Regarding the Non-Superfluence of My Remembrance of the Night When I Did Not Meet Sandy

With the insinuation that my recollection was inessential, the Reader exposes a breathtaking ignorance of the historian’s task, which is not to compile thrilling highlights but to build a clear window, abstaining from judgments so the Reader may undertake his own analysis. Perhaps the significance of this remembrance lay in its insignificance; perhaps it can only be appraised when compared and contrasted with other examples semiconscious phenomena. Here the Reader is condemned to analytic liberty, for the ethics of my calling prohibit me from so much as commenting on these and innumerable other scintillating possibilities. In this respect he commands my envy. If only my hands were not shackled by the integrity of a scholar and I were free to theorize.

Had the Reader paused to contemplate the rather unsubtle point that the relevance of an event is itself a judgment, he would understand that a historian must always err on the side of inclusion, not exclusion. Note well: my remembrance is not necessarily an example of this. “Erring on the side of inclusion” is simply an expression. Like a wheelbarrow, it should not be mistaken for what it transports. (Parenthetically, the anterior point is an embryonic statement of Petronius’ Wheelbarrow, which separates the literal meaning of a phrase from its actual meaning. The folly of ignoring this distinction is pandemic. In terms of momentousness, my Wheelbarrow is the lithe Artemis nudged between the Apollo and Zeus of my Blender and Shovel.)

If the time devoted to reading the additional pages pulled the Reader away from the symphony he is composing, his negotiations of world peace, or his unification of quantum mechanics and relativity theory, I apologize, but — as I have demonstrated in excruciating detail and with patience befitting a kindergarten teacher — I could do no other.

I suspect, but simple decency inhibits mentioning, the actual motive lurking like a lecherous little troll beneath the Reader’s criticism. Could it be he is perturbed because the detail devoted to the allegedly irrelevant remembrance was not instead lavished upon the act of fleshy congress that occurred after Sandy extracted me from the tent on the earliest pages of Part VII? Is it the Reader’s contention that my raison d’être is his titillation? Does he not have an internet?

Much like the instructions for changing a tire, descriptions of libidinous union need not exceed a few succinct sentences. For this there are four reasons. First and foremost, the human mind, of its own dynamism, creates more erotica than Southern California. What honest man can avow any conscious interval of more than twenty seconds where some bawdy phantasm did not dance across the stage of his mind? Diogenes, put down your lantern. You shall not find him. Even while one soars through the stratosphere of abstractions, Mother Nature takes great pains to swat him back to earth with intrusive thoughts of human pretzel-knots.

A case in point: during my clever but innocent metaphor

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