Thursday, March 26, 2015
All I ever wanted (feels like Maslow's hierarchy and nitrogen narcosis collaborated on this radical new form of bitter and my claim that I had prior art was drowned in the scuffle) is someone over for pizza and to do math. Thunkthunkthunk. I method act through my own motivations -- I don't trust them insofar as they don't make sense and what else starts with 'lo', anyway? Have me pokin' around at at fossilized thesaurus trying to find closure or New Jersey or the Western Kettles or some other tropane collagen stork battle gimletting the waffle batter of the world, and amidst hoovering from glotip to mysterious nonmentions of fumarase deficiency (makes whatever aing-tii circulatory fluid I might have reach its triple point and then gap-junctioning through bleary rhombs of superannuated emotional supernatant (didn't really need any more incitement to personal paranoia or what have you, and without the desire to cast ingots of bitter and leave them in odd positions in my hippocampus, yes of course I miss! But what's a fastidious accountant of keta to do besides encourage more fermenting and fomenting of my wither-worn and winter-bleary spirit? No final proscenia? Vial of eggnog goes splat. Splut. Velar nasal pith strung against the mire, strung in spider-silk and week-old halvah and dizzyingly cantilevered against the cat tails, here's my hand (usual recitations), here's what I have to offer, smush, so and so forth, froth. With dream memories now that I can't make sense of and adumbrations on my time and attention which mired in a mixture of crestfallen and forlorn like some fastidious psychologist from Brussels in 1928, excuse me, psychoanalyst querulously demanding how I like my cheese stir-fried the Maillard reactions are quite fetching have you managed to get to the shore yet and other burgeoning-on-incomprehensible questions about how many molecules of adenosine triphosphate the mitochondria in my feet have synthesized since I last felt satisfying hygge of any sort, shoo away, shoo away anxious to escape these irritating and unobservant questions, and I feel like interjecting "if you were really paying apropos attention to my current fractious state and have suggested incitements to a waking bilita mpash, I might have listened, but otherwise this mockery of accounting is just more salt on my wounds" I wanted the gazebo in the country, the one where the sky is torrid and yellow with ozone and the rain is from a supercell thunderstorm, and you could smell the geraniums and the tang of tea or ice cream as the comedy played on the laptop with its remaining charge during the power outage. My isolation coping mechanisms have kind of returned with unanticipated ferocity: persist, yes. Thrive, certainly not. Ache: quite definitely: here's more lego using language with no flair or magic, stuck in the same repetends, not ethereal, drab, dry, and I'll ache. I don't know what you feel over there, of the frond, but I feel sadness now and again. Time for the neroli oil, the crushed leaves of sedra, oil of the kernel of the apricot, sage and comfrey while they are still warm, and pizza, and a whole lot else besides, and new math papers, and so many impossibly heartwarming anagrams of 'check a letter isomer: hug'.