I hate the word stasis. It is a hideous, malformed wretch of a word. Look at how the upper case S lords it over the lower case T, like a mother and father from an all-American family, overseeing their ‘asis’ brood. And what about that brood. Regard the two conformist brothers, little S and little S, two uptight swots with crew cuts and matching silver-rimmed spectacles, outsmarting one another on their way to Harvard and Cohen & Cohen Attorneys-At-Law. It is sickening to see such avarice in those so young!
And the girls. Little A, the quiet one, lavishing her role as ditzy repressed girly-girl, mummy’s little treasure, while her show-off sister I dances and sings around the house, poking her needy nose where it isn’t wanted. These two girls will end up like the Bouvier sisters in a crumbling mansion, milking Jackie Onassis until she takes them back to a life they recognise, where the dreams of a once prosperous America seemed only a kiss away.
Say it. Stay-siss. Treating one’s sister like a dog. Like a fowl little beagle who won’t stop yapping and coughs butter pats upon the new shag carpet, who humps the legs of guests, who defecates in the most expensive dog fowling areas, forcing you to take a turd in your hand and toss it into someone’s garden. Someone who is watching and who will telephone the police, who will fetch the Polaroid and snap you. And your hand will stink for hours, because you can’t get to a toilet, because your dog has run off to go eat squirrels.
Stasis. How vile and crude you are, in name, and in meaning! Empires lurch to a halt, kingdoms once ruled with spontaneous wit and invention, benign kingdoms with each newborn a potential Archimedes, a possible Galileo. How you poison all human endeavour with indecision and doubt! You are the wrinkles on our skin, the fat on our thighs, the bags under our eyes, the bitter acknowledgement of lost time.
You are the devil’s juice, you are the cause of all unhappiness. You and your rotten children.
And the girls. Little A, the quiet one, lavishing her role as ditzy repressed girly-girl, mummy’s little treasure, while her show-off sister I dances and sings around the house, poking her needy nose where it isn’t wanted. These two girls will end up like the Bouvier sisters in a crumbling mansion, milking Jackie Onassis until she takes them back to a life they recognise, where the dreams of a once prosperous America seemed only a kiss away.
Say it. Stay-siss. Treating one’s sister like a dog. Like a fowl little beagle who won’t stop yapping and coughs butter pats upon the new shag carpet, who humps the legs of guests, who defecates in the most expensive dog fowling areas, forcing you to take a turd in your hand and toss it into someone’s garden. Someone who is watching and who will telephone the police, who will fetch the Polaroid and snap you. And your hand will stink for hours, because you can’t get to a toilet, because your dog has run off to go eat squirrels.
Stasis. How vile and crude you are, in name, and in meaning! Empires lurch to a halt, kingdoms once ruled with spontaneous wit and invention, benign kingdoms with each newborn a potential Archimedes, a possible Galileo. How you poison all human endeavour with indecision and doubt! You are the wrinkles on our skin, the fat on our thighs, the bags under our eyes, the bitter acknowledgement of lost time.
You are the devil’s juice, you are the cause of all unhappiness. You and your rotten children.
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