I once tweeted something about about trying to screenshot raindrops on my iPhone, as I had earnestly done one wet afternoon, their crystal-like array on my screen being mistaken, sans Wittgenstein, for representative realismwhereby reality can be only contained as some virtual diorama, as extant in one’s empiricism, or “head,” by which the actual world is measuredas opposed to “naïve realism,” the idea that, simplistically, what you see is what you get. This is all fun on a Tuesday night, until your author involves beef which had been fashioned with Japanese curry (sweeter than traditional Indian curry, as introduced by the British during their colonization), a piece which had been accidentally flung from his mouth onto his laptop’s screen and, for a split second, perceived as some dark rogue eclipse within the screen itself. You see, I was wrestling with a piece of gristle, tugging at it with my fingers, when I had lost control of it and lodged it towards my screen. And there it resided, as mutilated flesh, some screen scar hardening over these very words. And what did I pick up and place in my mouth? An offending object, or merely the subject of its representation? How real could meat be on this surface of semblances, on a platform built for and sustained by artifice, where images are mistaken for things? “The logical picture of the facts is the thought,” goes Wittgenstein in a proposition felt far less, an eternity apart, than the tepid thing down my throat. I felt sick. I still do.

I am at a café where I have written many posts in the past describing the people sharing my table. This is that kind of post. An attractive caucasian women in a semi-sheer blouse is married to the man across from her. I have deduced this not only by their respective wedding rings, but by the resigned yet distantly affectionate way they look at each other. He is grossly consumed by his laptop, likely tending to his work (on this Sunday, which may implicate an acute work “load” and probable salary). The woman is idly browsing through a reputable local bakery’s cookbook, letting out a prolonged sigh about one-of-every-ten breaths, which suggests that she is not here voluntarily, but as a compromise common in marriages; at every fifth sigh (i.e. 50 breaths, or ~2.5 mins), the husband looks up from his laptop at his wife and sort of “rolls his eyes” with his entire face without actually rolling his eyes. Earlier, I had the giddy privilege of watching her “go down” on a hastily wrapped veggie burrito, whose juices began dripping on the plate, on which the wife provided verbal commentary. Less than half-way though, said she couldn’t finish it and pushed the freshly ejaculated on plate towards her husband, who ignored this transaction. From inside the kitchen, jovial Mariachi music plays for the implicated demographic rendering our food. They are always so nice when they come out with our plates, and always so nice when they retrieve them. Some of them have tattoos on their throats expressing their allegiance to certain neighborhoods, or the names of women they loved, or still do. Maybe that’s the only way to care.