infinite first-class shoe on the hill
When I read a book I become it. Samewise, if you are happy, I will be; if you are sad, I will be. I have no blockades. I receive everything uncontrollably. Woe is I, O is I. This is my happening, and Strawberry Alarm Clock blows dandelions in the background.
Today I have positioned The Postal Service to keep temper through my speakers. This is important, as my brain is on rapid-fire these past couple of days, manic and multi-colored. Finally the humidity broke.
I can’t think of postal anything lately without thinking of the Possalthwaite character in Infinite Jest, whom the tennis boys refer to as Postal Weight. I am nearing the tangible end of this infinite trip. This is important. Finally the bikes spoke.
This morning it hit me how variously and deeply my mom and I are psychically entwined. She once bought me a CD I’d been wanting but had never mentioned—during the period when I kept myself rather distant from her and felt schmucky about it, and it’s rare she’s heard of the music I listen to.
The last time I returned to Illinois to visit my family, a couple months ago, I found a box of Band-aids in the hallway closet. Inside the box was a tube of Neosporin. Only weeks earlier had I decided to do that myself. Might as well keep them together. Oh my god, I hollered, You do this too. This was not in practice when I was growing up there.
Recently my mom got an e-mail account. I sent her a short message about facing my fear of driving in Manhattan and about my plans to become a taxi driver now that I am able. She responded with a short tale that involved me driving my Dwarves around and stopping at Dairy Queen to tame them, then picking up a snooty CEO who was late for a meeting. Hark!, she wrote. I use this Hark. There is always light around it and I am superconscious of its ring. She says Hark too? Does everybody say Hark?
I replied to her that it’s clear now why I have difficulty discerning reality from fantasy. If there is even a difference (a topic for another time). Cheers.
A theory from last night’s Infinite Jest suggests that in my previous life she was my Death and so is in this life my mother. That is why we telepathize and sometimes clash. This was the last idea to go into my head before sleeping.
Hours later the volume on the Strawberry Alarm Clock turned itself on like a porn star out of the carnival of a dream about lost and found shoes. And the world roused 'mid the scent of peppermint and incense.
Today I have positioned The Postal Service to keep temper through my speakers. This is important, as my brain is on rapid-fire these past couple of days, manic and multi-colored. Finally the humidity broke.
I can’t think of postal anything lately without thinking of the Possalthwaite character in Infinite Jest, whom the tennis boys refer to as Postal Weight. I am nearing the tangible end of this infinite trip. This is important. Finally the bikes spoke.
This morning it hit me how variously and deeply my mom and I are psychically entwined. She once bought me a CD I’d been wanting but had never mentioned—during the period when I kept myself rather distant from her and felt schmucky about it, and it’s rare she’s heard of the music I listen to.
The last time I returned to Illinois to visit my family, a couple months ago, I found a box of Band-aids in the hallway closet. Inside the box was a tube of Neosporin. Only weeks earlier had I decided to do that myself. Might as well keep them together. Oh my god, I hollered, You do this too. This was not in practice when I was growing up there.
Recently my mom got an e-mail account. I sent her a short message about facing my fear of driving in Manhattan and about my plans to become a taxi driver now that I am able. She responded with a short tale that involved me driving my Dwarves around and stopping at Dairy Queen to tame them, then picking up a snooty CEO who was late for a meeting. Hark!, she wrote. I use this Hark. There is always light around it and I am superconscious of its ring. She says Hark too? Does everybody say Hark?
I replied to her that it’s clear now why I have difficulty discerning reality from fantasy. If there is even a difference (a topic for another time). Cheers.
A theory from last night’s Infinite Jest suggests that in my previous life she was my Death and so is in this life my mother. That is why we telepathize and sometimes clash. This was the last idea to go into my head before sleeping.
Hours later the volume on the Strawberry Alarm Clock turned itself on like a porn star out of the carnival of a dream about lost and found shoes. And the world roused 'mid the scent of peppermint and incense.
3 Comments:
I guess proximity (in place) has no real impact on this sort of psychic link. Judging by your mother and you and my family and me.
i am a complete empathe, too.
I meant, of course, judging by your mother and you versus my family and me. I am not an empathe and I possess no empathy towards people and that whole 'human condition' thing. But I'm working at it. Excelsior!
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