Here you are after having your sensorium crop-dusted. There’s this drift. Wait, I can’t find it now. It comes and goes in accordance with its own inherent rhythms. Give me a second.
Do you know I didn’t plug the lights in at all this holiday season? These glowing bulbs provoke a very specific feeling. They’re on now and my altered perspective helps to metabolize it all. Shh, remembering need not bring you low.
Did you notice (I already know you did) that we found a way to make the story all about us? Instantly, automatically. Is it like that for everyone? The way we orient ourselves to events going on around us. How we always manage to become the point of reference, the protagonist, even when the story belongs entirely to someone else. Something about understanding when you are in a supporting role and disappearing from the scene. There’s something to be learned there.
I remember the row houses for saie in the center of a small northern village in which all the sheep had died in the span of a single season and half the farmers suicided rather than face bankruptcy.
Spent the morning out west among the worried well off. Nervous, hypochondriacle, entitled, white - hurrying around getting supplies and freaking out in in anticipation of a snowstorm tonight. I was mildly amused and kind of pitying them rather than feeling angry and spiteful. I chalk that one up as personal growth.
Two, at the the most. One would be better, he advised.
Yes, sir. One was indeed sufficient.
You bet I can dance to this. There's those leaves again. Combined, they're a tool for keeping time, but more than that, there's some kind of bouncing magic. Trance inducing. In time with your heartbeat. The bass will carry you home. And (a word to the wise) someone ought to adjust the density dial just a smidgen on either the dip or the dipping chip, nah'meen?
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