in a cautiously indirect manner

Crabwise means sideways. Sometimes that’s the only way to get through to people who don’t know how to listen. Crabwise also means ‘in a cautiously indirect manner.’

I’d like to write a book called The Public Bathroom Diaries, or perhaps just start a blog on the topic. Among other behaviors I find odd, about 90% of the time that I use the two-stall bathroom at work (mainly when I am already in one stall and another person comes in), the person who enters the stall next to me sighs, moans or sings. Occasionally that person speaks to me. Intuitively I think the sighing and moaning is a faux expression of exhaustion by that person who really just wants to let you know she’s there and because the silence is uncomfortable for her. The faux exhaustion is common where I work and, possibly, common in many office environments: people are unhappy with their station and so complain about their jobs, and they all think they’ve got the worst lot. Never have I walked into a public bathroom and sighed or moaned, or sang. I’m inclined to say something crude when it happens. You got the runs again? I know—it’s frustrating. You’ll get through it. And then I’ll step up on my pot and lean over the wall to pat her on the back.

Crabwise there are cameras watching your every move, so sing out loud your every secret.

innocent quicky

congratulate the whirling girl for not telling anyone to fuck off today. and for not smacking anyone into distant galaxies.

today was a day when when men with sky-high degrees didn't do well being corrected by what they perceive as midget-minds. a matter of perception.

if the behavior of men in traffic gathered at the foot of the turnpike tolls is any indication of the potential for ever achieving world peace, give up now.

car fires, plane fires, and face fires. early october 2006 is behaving like february 2001, when bottoms dropped out and tops refused to admit they'd ever existed.

the whirling girl has been tight-busy in the warm office. send word that she currently is whirling a couple of clones into action.

posterity

Today was the hoot I couldn’t make head or tail of. A piece of mail, neon green and wordless, blew my mind across the shining sea, air full of busted bombs. I threw up and called it today. Pressing re-wind, satans emerged from what previously I misunderstood, the art of living, sparking an idea for this life’s thesis. Soon everything converged like pie, except for rhubarbs, who were striking in front of the capitolium in Aruba (i.e., vacation of the tiki-and-fruit sort). Now I stand in the line-up, begging the police photographer to shoot my arm in every possible position.

when the room is a mess

Go home to your doctors. Leave behind your whiskey and spirit-glass. Already you tripped over the full length of the mirror and caused a falling out between alter-altars. Today is the old Tuesday when rain holds back and grapes turn to stomp on feet. Things in waiting get done in a flash and all abdominal scars heal. Hearts are another thing, on a timescale bigger than galactic. A bowl of cereal will get you through the day healthily; an apple, a year. Arbitrary vessels hold all sorts of ambitious wisdom that may or may not be strung to any anchor.

dream leak 1

Zeitgeber arrived and everyone took out their hummus and veggies, thinking it was time to meal. But no. Day waned down like a cocktail in a flute, and the goat-god drew the curtains. We were in for a gruesome night, it seemed, tuba moaning and all. Again I didn’t catch the baseball, though it came right at me. Honest, I forgot I was playing, I told the team, thinking it was time to steal. Really, Zeitgeber was way overdressed for this ship, and had no proper baton. Who are you gonna sleep next to tonight? The fan, prism, or pitchfork?

swiveling the waist

Are you wearing shorts today? It’s degenerate but preferable to wearing nothing on the iceberg where your capacity to carry things diminishes with each helicopter flown by. The woman on the ground sighs when she wastes away. It’s the nature of the beast to stink and sink, she clarifies. Hoard your belongings to sink you quicker, wrote the one devil on a pirate ship in the core of earth. He wears shorts, true. He wears patients when they’re dead of faith. He wears complacence on
Sundays, like a riverbank. Spot the necklace, learn to swim again, smoke your druthers done.

transmission in disjunctive couples

Sometimes a pony gets wet. Sometimes a girl gets rest. Sometimes a leader loses distinction between movie and living room and computer screen and dream.

Clouds hover under the ceiling, the good kind, and grandma returns home on a fluffy white dog.

Sunshine in October says a lot. It says: "warming" and "warning" and "I like your purple shirt, doctor." Yes,

each diagnosis must be made individually. There is no mechanical numerical cut-off. Unfortunately, they are raising robots in some of those medical camps.

The wet pony convulses at such foreboding, such blind. Closes his eye, where dream is located.