Two things. There’s tennis & you should play it. I know you. Your physiological needs are over-met & you’re physically as safe as a billionaire pedophile American financier on his southwestern mega-ranch, giving you no reason that you can’t keep climbing the pyramid to become the most that you can possibly be. Play tennis.
If we were playing ‘Would you rather, it might go like this--would you rather fester and foment in the reality soup of daily life in a country run by intellectually vacuous voles, while you stare into the hopeless abyss of Instagram and Facebook, seeking solace in other people’s food smut and feeding their pathological need to be Liked ... or ... escape into a spiritually succulent tennis match under the transcendent opalescent sky synchronously protecting and exposing you to the larger universe while songbirds celebrate your points with original scores?
Instead of hunkering under your desk in the fetal position, your cheeks stained with vodka-fueled tears, waiting for the next election that will usher in the Dawn of a New Age or a Dystopian Doomsday, sharpen your racquet and warm your balls for tennis, where you can shoot love bombs, not bullets, under a magical mackerel sky. Play tennis.
The Ball is a guide to having the best life, as it bounces back and forth predictably and elegantly, movingfrom one point to another, not lying, cheating, stealing, or creating petty drama on the tennis court wherenone should exist. It relinquishes itself to gravity, acknowledging the forces of physics and the needs of the larger universe dwarf any ridiculous notions it has to resist, understanding that once its can is popped, there is only a short window of time where it will thrive in the sun, as it will soon be food for the ball machine, and then a dog’s toy, and then dust.
Before you end up sprayed with Pledge and wiped off the top edge of a future quantum-style ceiling fan, that can be both on and off simultaneously, see what happens when you commit to making a commitment to commit yourself to living life like you play tennis--being fair to your opponent, supportive of your partner, and passionate about the game. Practice life. Play tennis.
Ignore the chores. Laundry can wait and work can gurgitate on your desk while you practice developing the focus it takes to make contact with a two-ounce yellow sphere hurtling fifty miles an hour through space, calculated to land in a place you cannot reach. Play tennis.
As the tentacles of broken relationships wrap themselves around your heart and the collective abusiveexperience of childhood foams and festers in the crevices of your cerebral mantle, and you feel you areshattered but not broken and yet cracked so much as to be concerned, subsume the principles of wabi-sabiand own your cracks like a bitch. Celebrate how things are rather than how they should be by playing tennis, where the energy of the court will reach into your psychic orifice and massage your broken heart into a pulsating love orb capable of saving you from years of longing for a life that you don’t have. Play some tennis.
As we all grasp wildly for a reality washcloth or hazmat suit in this metaphysical maelstrom of feculentspermatozoa sprayed from the flaccid noodles of phallocentric power-junkie politicos that run the world,there’s a feeling I get. And it starts sometime around midnight, or at least that’s when you lose yourself fora minute or two, according to the song. It’s a cold world. The metronomic thwack of the ball will realign the world’s beat from horror-punk-death-metal to story-centric indie adult alternative.
Play tennis. Lube up your racquet, toss your vibration dampeners into the wind, and get in touch withyour carnal self. Feel the reverberations in your flesh as my ball thwacks your strings, and return the love from the bed of clay on which you play, wrapped in the crisp sheets of a winter breeze, leaving you filled with the sun’s semen of light and love.
While the petit bourgeois do their best to gentrify and the gentry gentrify The Hoods of America, and Middle America finds its heart exploded in a defunct coal mine filled with the smoke of the hopes and dreams of the proletariat who were hoodwinked by the right-sided politicos into believing the ground is level and the deck is even, so that they too could rise up, and Big Pharma funnels Fentanyl-laced OxyContin through the mesolimbic pathway of an entire generation, play tennis.
Let tennis be your online porn, as you whack away, point by point, at the generalized malaise that permeates Dark Suburbia. You’re hot. The court is your bed, the clay your sheets, and so forth, as you fornicate with the ball and release love into the air, turning the tennis experience into an outercourse delight. Let the balls fall where they may.
Make peace with your shadow side by playing tennis, where the sun shines on those who put themselves out there, or you can sit at home, head bent, with plastic-bound information processing systems shooting shrapnels of data into your sea of fatty brain water. Tennis is nutrition for the brain.
Pop on your tennis fedora and create your own sturm und drang on the court, a storm which you will. endure and conquer with quiet perseverance, exquisite muscle control, and a mastery of physics. The ball goes where the ball will go. Let it go. Let others sit in darkness, ulcerating psychic cancers, curled in the fetal position inside their stucco and concrete block uteruses, afraid of happiness and love because all that is good comes with the risk of loss. Wear sunscreen.
It’s hard to know where to start and what will get you to come out for tennis, so how about let’s work it out between the basal plane of physical reality and the matrix-like quagmire of our emotional energy field? To begin an intimate relationship is like striking a match in the wind. You rub it against the right kind of surface to generate frictional heat and cup your hand around it while it flits and flickers, and you hope against hope that the bulk movement of air around you doesn’t blow the thing to hell until you’re able to get a fire going, a fire which has some cojones and can’t be easily blown out by a passing gust, and you do all of it knowing that no fire is safe from the fallout of an existential bucket of water being dumped on it, barring a nuclear fire, which has its own problems, but you persist, because a good fire will give you warmth and light in this cold, dark world. And then still, you wonder. Convince your lover to play tennis with you.
The best definition of love that I can come up with is that it’s a state of continuous forgiveness. We forgive those we love who trespass against us over and over and over, knowing that we’re all passengers on an otherworldly Titanic steered by a drunk captain cruising toward certain annihilation, planning for retirement, living for a tomorrow that may never come, and so why not let that shit go? Sometimes it’s hard. As such, come to a place where Love means Nothing. Bring your skin pouch of primordial soup, prepared to play the best tennis of your life to date and the worst tennis from this point forward.
End your match with a humbling handshake. As you and your opponent’s purlicues rub together, you can consummate the connection by looking directly into ze eyes & acknowledging our common humanity in a cruel world.
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