My hands paralyze when I write correspondences, often.
Awkwardly, however, they sometimes don't. Today I had a burst of Right Time.
I wait for a whole series of events (mostly metaphysical) to converge before I sit down to type/pencil/say:
Hello, Thank You, Will Try Not to Online Stalk You.
What does this cryptic post mean, this one I'm writing now?
Nothing really of interest to you, probably, unless you know it is of interest to you.
(I want to tell you everything until the letters start piling up --
too quickly they make valleys and those fill with water if I'm lucky, at times cement.)
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| over-the-counter self-portrait |
I wish I wanted to tell you this morning's dream in explicit detail too.
In this dream a stranger accused me of only being interested in misogynist protagonists.
"You're only interested in misogynist protagonists," is exactly what he said.
He was dressed like a mean clown. He was condescending. He led me down a minor rabbit-hole.
I thanked him for it.
Ahem. (Apparently, he was right.)
Then, he pointed to The Thing Itself.
I was being passed on the left. I didn't notice. "Look," he said, "there goes The Thing Itself."
(Can't make myself describe it to you here. It was the color of flesh but also pink.)
I have definitely been reading too much psychoanalytic text lately. Or not quite enough.
This morning I woke up unconfused. This, a new sensation, mostly wrong I'm sure.
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