old old old

what a strange and curious weekend it was. I was all set to go to the party
in lackadaisical fashion and to wish a yohoho to everyone there and then
vanish away, once done. but the call came in and I had to bustlybustly off
to the hospice with her, playing hospitaller and etc. the row of olympics-watchers
all in a row, made me think that everything was funny and that they were
all related somehow or in-relation to one another apart from just the geometrical
progression that they inhabited, watching those silly ‘sledders sliding down
their little track. “this is no curling!” i said to myself, or said that
I said later. they made me laugh though and took my mind for a moment off
of my bronchial friend in the room away. things seem quieter now, even though
I’m more tired than I can shake a stick at, because I’m too tired to lift
any old stick at all. didn’t sleep hardly a wink that whole night or maybe
I just don’t remember that. busy refilling waterglasses and etc. silly me,
though tired, traipsed off with mb to ‘nother party after just a twain of
twinklers. znooz. drank like a fish, but couldn’t keep up with the tenor
of the party. just wanted to sit in ye old couch, until the matresser came
along and started asking questions about the “pulse of the culture” and some
rubbish. I told him that he should talk to the people who anticipate the
“pulse of the culture” and he said goddamn and dammit and whatzit swearing,
but it was funny when he sat down and said, “read to me.” but all I had was
a sillier magazine with a silly comic strip I didn’t feel like reading. I
should have said. but I didn’t. I should have read something better than
that silly comic strip. this makes me think: I have picked up things to
read at many parties. it’s antisocial, yes. no one’s ever called me on it,
like that. opinion revising itself, although he still had innocuous things
to say about things. I surrepped to the loo and it transpired as I predicted
that my couch seat next to mattresser was interdicted. sure sure, bereft
the mbee to languish under his painful discourse, but all’s fair in partyparty.
I’d heard stories (and the coworker just drank so ever like a fish that I
couldn’t even think how funny things were, and but those two antiquarian
typewriters made me revise just a bunch of old things in my brain; it was
an evening for brain revision, now I look back on it.) of this painfully
shy girl, but she didn’t seem shy, drunk or barricadoed in an antisocial
textual place. instead, found her speaking freely to the mbee (silly psych
teacherwoman with her nocommentnocomment, immediately after her comment,
presuming to make some judgement about her perception of her reality tunnel,
when you’d think she’d be wiser than that.) but this shy girl, was unnaturally
shy, based upon her unnatural alcoholickal crutching. she ended up whirling
in the closet. I am amused by too many things. and so I left and didn’t make
a fuss when the mbee clamored to flee. ya, I said, ya, let’s flee this monkeyland.
(this is me thinking of rules and derryold pumpkins. but no, I’ll just anyold
which way, because that’s enough for me) yug

old old old

we’re feeling so chatty and the cup’s burning our hands so we’re holding
it in(wethink) a very funny way and all the eyes just keep flying around
the room and down to the table and the cheessplayers(clocksclickclak) are
mumbling their chessplaying moves , to be sure , and no one ever wins anymore
in that silly old game. how sad to lose with just 7 seconds remaining on
your opps clock, unless I’m disremembering. the old cloak just burns around
our eyes, wordswordwords, but I’ve got an idea now and only everything is
silent then all what’s this thought? stigmata? bleeding from the hands. but
would the blood stain? or would it just clean things really well? or would
it stain forever, fresh as the day it bled? is the ground on Golgotha forever
stained? Read: THE THREE STIGMATA OF PALMER ELDRITCH by Philip K. Dick. Not as good as THE DIVINE INVASION, but very interesting.

Also, just read AS I LAY DYING. this book kicked my ass, but in a good way.


hoopy, try these shoes and

hoopy, try these shoes and don’t look down at all. not at all.
the phantom t. decided my particular brand was not one they were interested in purchasing.
too bad. too bad. but now I’m better.

fish have been on my dish for days now, thanks to

sleep has been elusive these days (or nights rather) slept on the wrong side of the bed last night, just to see what

felt like sleeping on the side of a slope

town was so empty on walking home

discontent seems to be breeding like dingbats in the
I try not to drink it

i approached the phantom tollbooth,

i approached the phantom tollbooth,
last night, shummpy. shummpy, don’t pout. it went well, but I find out. later.
to be sure, the mechanickals just keep jamming up with poysenberries. but
here’s a tentative structure for it: 1) boy etc. and family prior to carnival
(is this a red herring? should I even worry about creating an everyman character
to provide etc unclouded perspec?) 2) the ringmaster’s pov narration… this
suggests the possibility of other pov narration, such that they weave together
like so 2a) alternative is thirdperson structure interspersed with firstperson
ringmaster stuff 3) is it like setting crazy fish in a box and watching them
eat each other? or is it needing some external poke? (the finger of god stirs
the dust) crackit, what a nut this has become. need to start tapping away
at the damn thing some more, but the thought of veering off in the wrong
direction has stayed my hand for now, that plaid and worried thing. jester’s
chortling at my ruse.