In Some Noisy Bathroom

Sleepwalking and I am beads spaced at ragged interval. Diatonic Male. And this, my droogs, is a half step. Did I sin today? Did I quail? Did I collar any coup? Counting and tallying, serving to interface systems, becoming more a tool than a user. Maybe I laughed, maybe, in one of nature's subtler imitations, I was happy.

I can't quite remember.

I am interrupting, but a Portuguese mystic once instructed me that interruption is often correct, even polite and expected. If I started to interrupt and then, in my juvenile awkwardness, fell silent she would insist I continue, repeating gently that if I had something to say I should say it.

I learn quick.

Harder when my pauses aren't for some sense of propriety but because I've started speaking with little idea about how to talk, and besides maybe this isn't the best time for it anyway, silence being such a rarefied commodity. She instructed me in silence by watching me sleep when I grew too weary to interrupt, and these are the most blissful slumbers I can recall.

They're usually gone in the morning, these apparitions, leaving you both relieved and hungry.

I am split. Root and branch, living half in and out. Underground, with Fyodor and Pynchon. Above, with PKD. Interfaced by numerous consumer grade chemicals, sociomedial mindfucks, gestalt epoxy, and mythological hardware.

Call me the burning bush of Duluth, MN. Call me your (br)other. Spite and forget me, chuckle at my impudence, pat me on the head. I probably won't notice. I probably won't be enchanted by sudden movements and shining things. I probably won't be enchanted by sudden movements and shining things like eyes in the dark or phosphorescent salt thighs or fingers outlined by strobe static or that one, jello clear moment when I realized, there on the low creaking uncomfortable bed on the blankets I had stolen from my parents, that there really were such things as endings and that this was one.

Well, OK.
So I probably will be.
Easily mesmerized. By memories of people I'll never meet.

I Promise

To spend the rest of today sitting on the patio reading "V." by Thomas Pynchon. To drink iced coffee and chuckle at my anxieties. To take myself lightly and carry some of that into this week.

To lounge unapologetically...

And if I come back and read this later, in the midst of whatever panic I might find myself in over the next month:

Try to remember. You have it pretty good, most of the time. How bout you just do the stuff you have to do, stop whining about it, and get back to me when you've come to your senses? You're a more or less intelligent, self sufficient, capable guy with decent improvisational skills. Make shit work. And when you've settled in to whatever new rhythm you find, and you will, we can sit down and hammer out some of this existential bullshit that's been keeping you up at night. Until then, simmer down and stop being such a drama queen.

xoxo,
Me