We phenomenologist’s are an odd bunch, never quite knowing what it is we’re feeling or thinking, always one step out of step. True, we do spend far too much time floating like capsized jellyfish in the mid-stream of thought, all this reflecting upon reflecting; far too much time. E. Husserl, ego-transient, the big Kaduna, the master of Daseinanalysis, or was that M. Boss, MD. Moot, it’s all moot when you get to this point, this conjectural point, the leaping-off point, point. Or is that, pray tell do, the pointy-stick-point, the old in-and-out as dear Alex would have put it? Seems moot, surely, all this moodiness and mum-mummery, surely. Now that Sartre fellow was a real bodkin, a genuine existential mess, a pipe smoker to boot. Never did much like him; all that nonsense about non-existence and bodkins, seems oh so moody and eye-squinting. Being and No-Nothingness, I fine mess you made of that my dear bodkin Mr. Sartre. Fuck it, I’m going swimming without a lifejacket.
