Capsized tongues tied upside-down and making sense of no one and nothing we’ve ever seen or would want to, come to think of it. I like to run on run on when it’s necessary to remember where I’m going and where I’d want to be. Maybe that’s nowhere. Maybe I need a new keyboard that fits my fingers better. Hard to say. I’m gone and withered from the heat of my own sweater. No knob northwards. Maybe I need a bigger font?
This is a good color, though. I feel like remorselessness gives me more time for tedium. I was going to sleep, but now I think I’ll keep my eyes pried open and work this out. Get it out of the way early. No time like the now, right? You’d think I’d be better at typing, as it’s all I ever do. Well, aside from the cutting and the pasting and the ripping and the drawing and the mending it all up again. The children that scream and cry about a lack of androgyny are making their eyebrows climb higher for simpler pleasures we’ve never had the chance to see because it’s all been hiding in some big warehouse somewhere downtown. I think I know where hatred hides (in the open).
I was at the library the other day and I saw something I’m not sure I can quite describe. It was in the fixed boredom section (where you get slapped for even whispering), and I was being ogled by a telepath who didn’t know I could tell, but oh, I could tell. Digging at my brain is something you thought I wouldn’t feel? Should I ignore fleas, rats, tapeworms, and other invasive vermin because they’re just doing their thing? Sorry, but I’m not a voluntary victim. Voluntary lycanthrope, perhaps, but let’s be reasonable. I’m hoping I can get a thought in edgewise when you’re picking apart my psyche, but it’s doubtful. You should be so lucky — you really should!
So anyway, I sensed a disturbance in my own force. The force inside. The what’s it all about part of my head that’s trying to piece it all together without worrying about what fiddles in the darkness. I don’t have time to leave breadcrumbs for ants. I’m not thinking of the breadcrumbs, and I’m not thinking about the ants. They’re just two things that gravitate toward the calamity of coincidence. I’m abundant in nothing, so nothing comes knocking often. I could stand for it knocking oftener, truth be told, but it’s seldom one to knock. It’s a barger-inner. Like a psychotic in-law you’re always seeing in old movies and new television shows. We couldn’t be sure any of it is bound to make any sense, but it’s cool, baby. It’s cool! I was hoping for less mania and more action, but my feet won’t sit still. Not that feet sit. If feet are occupied with anything, it’s usually all the standing around in lines and places where someone’s got to take turns seeing you. Or you take turns seeing them, rather. Something like that.
Where were we? Oh, right! Back to psychics. No. Telepaths. I think that was it. None are eavesdropping right now, as far as I can tell — and they’d better have quieter “shoes” the next time they come around to stomp around my mental landscape, or I’m going to have to ask them to leave. Or at least take off their shoes. Even if they’re moderately unwashed, I think I would choose stench over noise for a distraction if it’s something I’m allowed to do. But who allows anything? Is it on good authority? Is such authority granted, given, or taken? Whatever. I’ll make sure I’ve got the upper hand, I will, I will!
Wow. I’m almost to my writing goal already. It’s not too hard as long as I don’t think about it much. It’s even easier when I don’t think about it at all. I’ll find out if it’s possible to completely let go as this experiment commences. And if I have mental eavesdroppers. And jerkwads that fiddle with the faddle of the doo-woppa dim-faddle. Yeah, I went overseas and didn’t have much to say. When my blind eyes don’t see much, my brain can take me anywhere even if I’m stuck in this room.
Back to the library, though. If I were supposed to tell you about what’s happening there, or what happened there, or what could happen there, or what might happen there, or what I wish would happen there, would I be telling you anything, really? I can’t determine, for sure, what’s going to come of it.
If I were you, I shouldn’t worry about it. And since I’m me, I’ll worry even less! Worrying is a loser’s game. Even if it means you care.
[Photo by Robert Glen Fogarty]