The Ancient Language of Line

“Hey man, do you know where I can find-”

“Before language was language, language was line – is what I would say, if that had ever actually changed. Language, you see, language is all still just a matter of lines. Language is what makes shit what we call shit. Language spells the world’s shit. Language is Shakespeare and sunsets and live Japanese octopus porn.”

“Sorry, I’m not sure that I…”

“See, it wasn’t always that grotesque, though – before all that, language just was, you know? Language was what the old Celts could manage through symbols. See, some of these uppity artists, you know, they’ll separate “symbol” drawing and “realistic” drawing. Swear on my life, just ask one of ‘em and you’ll swear they just saw a two-headed ogre and donkey fusion performing autofellatio in public.”

“I think you might have me confused for someone else. I was just looking for-f”

“Symbol drawing isn’t “real” drawing, they’ll say. Symbol drawing means you’re not drawing what you see. Bullshit. All bullshit. For something like that to be true, our eyes would never deceive us. Believe me, you want to be a fucking idiot for life, trust your eyes to show you reality.”

“What?”

“The old Celts, you see, they learned this fucking weird trick. Instead of looking outward, you see, they learned to roll their eyes backwards. Swear of my life, buddy, those fuckers rolled their eyes all the way back. They didn’t just trust what their eyes could see man, oh no, they wanted to put their own brains under the magnifying glass.”

“I was just looking for the train station.”

“See, buddy, you’re not gonna draw shit when you draw what it looks like. You draw a face, big deal man, wow, it’s fucking nothing. You want to draw things that exist? You want to draw some shit that really captures all the majestic ugliness of “existence” that humankind holds to its chest like my ex-wife held old shit over my head? Draw symbols, man. Draw lines.”

“I will settle for an approximate landmark.”

“The old Celts, y’know, those old Celts had this shit called the “language of birds”. Green language, that’s what they called it. What else is green? Fucking grass. Grass and trees bro. Nature, man, nature is green, and green language, the language of nature, is the language of the birds.”

“…I think I’m just gonna go ask somebody else for directions.”

“The Celts rolled their eyes backwards into their own heads, drew the shapes of their own brains, because they realized early on that they were outmatched when it came to understanding what was in front of their eyes. Whether they ever admitted it or not, they knew that the animals are smarter than us.”

“A-are you following me?”

“The animals, man, the ones who are the green stuff, they’re the ones who know what the fuck is up. When the Hallstatts and the La Tene and the Druids all learned to respect the birds as their betters, they turned to the metallurgy and the glyphs. Those bigass Methalithic erections busting up like rocky boners all over Central Europe are just the symbol of man’s immortalized hard-on for the Bird Goddess, the first deity to ever give humankind blue balls for a little significance in this cold universe.”

“I will give you a dollar to stop following me.”

“Ha! Got’im. Sucker.”

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