Cape Cod Baby Godzilla

What, exactly, is a Cape Cod house? I love this question. It has nothing, and everything, to do with anguish. The anguish of the moment, which is byzantine, and drunk with architecture. 

The Cape Cod house has a rectangular shape, steep roof, central chimney, and symmetrical design. Perfect for white night meditations, inexplicable ruptures within one’s personal realm, and a searching and extrasensory grammar.

The world is so incredible. Certain indecisions have to be expanded by colloquy, or collusion. Either one. Makes no difference. If our words have an impact on the surrounding totems, we stand back and watch as the animals squirm and gnash and fulminate into life. No one can hear us through the sound of the surf. We find our way by touch and intuition, as our ancestors did, in the forests of Saskatchewan and West Siberia. 

Sometimes there are signs. Signs can be important. Neon, digital, or LED. They can be hard to decipher, but full of convulsive beauty, syntactically ungovernable, but full of ingenious angles. They generally indicate the presence of Gaelic, or Lampong, or a nearby popcorn popper. Letters dance amid the new growths in the garden, legibly illegible, and daubed with sunlight. If, during our banter, my macaque gropes around for an offering of affection while I’m struggling to make myself coherent, pay it no mind. He won’t bite. It’s all just a poem anyway. This life. This cauldron. This wisteria of syllables. This aviary of vowels. This purposefully prurient purposelessness. Once you accept the premise that in a universe without any conclusive moral underpinning or reassuring consistency, anything can, and will, happen quite often, even if it means closing the garage early and going home. There comes a time when you just have to sit down somewhere quiet and ponder things. And we call this form of reflection salutary, because it leads to boisterous discussion, and Spinoza and quetzals and soothing moisturization.

I asked AI: is there any mention of Cape Cod architecture in the poetry of Wallace Stevens? And the answer was no. Apparently not. Although it did go on to say that Stevens' use of imagery and symbolism can evoke a sense of place and feeling that might resonate with the landscape of Cape Cod.

The highest concentration of Cape Cod architecture is in Massachusetts. This is the result of oysters, and Charles Olson, who I read as a youth in a backyard in downtown San José. Later in life, when I had come to appreciate how cacophonous my emotional life had turned out to be, despite my many attempts at kung fu and taekwondo, I could say, with the utmost proprioception, that if I should ever come to inhabit a Cape Cod house, I will certify my pretentions with soft cloth napkins and quietly murmured phonemes, and assume the proportions of a giant mailman. I will bring letters to people’s houses. And oysters and roosters and bombast. Beautiful beautiful bombast. Cradled in my arms like a Cape Cod baby Godzilla.                                  

 

The Méret Oppenheim Teacup Solution

My wrinkles arrange the beak by which I speak. I lean forward. I lean backward. I light an energy to glide into cockeyed.

The clatter beneath our prayers has the sound of oarlocks in a bayou. If you allow the embryonic a place in this denim, we’ll find ourselves an intriguing intestine to describe. It will grow into pigs.

Biology is a symptom of grace. The prodigal makes it flourish. This linen moans with acceptance. I can feel it in the sparkle of your eyes. This junkyard of words and expressions. This long tall sally. This plump verification of wax. We draw up experiments there drop by drop. The local pharmacies pay us with locomotives.

Have you ever tried putting a diesel locomotive in a coin operated parking meter? Good luck finding a parking meter. They use apps now.

We use our locomotives as one might a Méret Oppenheim teacup: that is to say, sometimes a great notion deserves something better than a dying security. It needs trees and sweet morning air. A good roll in the hay. And a Méret Oppenheim teacup.

Meanwhile, my plan is to treat the bacteria with respect until a disease gets here. It may be a while. Wings smear our bohemia with pushing and pulling. The nation has lost its bearings. Only a disease like fandango can cure us of horizontality. What’s the trick to burning mushrooms, anyway? All I require for now is a donkey, a compass, and a Lucinda Williams album. Look over there and watch as I bend my journey to the caress of her music.

Assume an aroma and strut around. I welcome the mint on my tongue. A language vessel can sigh for rattan, but it takes a supreme court decision to establish oligarchy. They squeeze the medicine and clash with its precepts. Can anyone say they were surprised? You can peer through a submersible window to see the luminous monsters swimming by in hourglass cotillions. But will it bring you heat and credibility? Will it corner your demons in rum? Soon after my languish vanished, I saw it shattered on the ceiling. And that’s when I knew. I knew everything. Everything there is to know about drumsticks. And Malibu. And the perverse craving I have for lilacs.

Once again. I cannot emphasize this enough. If you’re contemplating a career, consider Méret Oppenheim’s teacup. Her fur teacup. Sip your ambitions and struggle against the tide. I won’t stop you. I don’t even know you. Growl yourself into denim so I can see you better. Surely as sleep approaches morning, the sun will scatter its temptations all over spring. We’ll know better then. Better what to do. And what not to do. And put it in a constitution. And send it to El Salvador. 

 

An Eye On Tuesday

An eye on Tuesday is a flowery forge a greenery for my laughter an evening that drags itself towards hope. An eye on Wednesday welcomes hummingbird mucus welcomes sauerkraut on a bone china dinner plate welcomes almost anything a scarf and a plow a ray of sunlight full of showers a despair that walks on legs of vibrant color. Acrobatic plum splash a shivering tarpaulin a spring that affirms the capharnaüm of cravings in a single axle.     

Oh my God could this be it today is a parable of wasps a pomegranate of sunlight. It creates a very singular weight an espadrille on a carpet a sky streaming down through the canopy of a tropical forest. Almond and chocolate in a cherry cupboard. There is often a weight to the circumstances of things, the gestalt, the forms, the shapes, the shovel in the back of the cathedral, the mist that feels the adjacency of mass like a ball hurled into heaven. I’m often inspired by movement. And music. I’d like to open a wound and play the harpsichord. I hear a faraway sound that’s soft and colorful like the song of a paper bird. I’m finally convinced. West Frisian has the taste of plums. And yet the voice will echo in a cave in which a deity is suddenly awakened and think it only natural to call an attorney. We must assume some accountability for our actions. Even a scrap iron apricot has its ecstasies. And every wrong note invokes a coyote.

I really enjoy a good casserole and from time to time a walk down a quiet street. Salvation is often slow to arrive. What to do in the meantime can be a delicate matter. The sponge that shapes its life around absorption is weighed down by whatever it absorbs. The sponge must be squeezed to express this. The first time I felt squeezed I was 15. I took the Amtrack to Minot, North Dakota and joined a circus. It was a metaphysical circus called Actus Essendi. I learned to juggle sparklers while riding bareback on Archelon, a giant sea turtle. At age 208, Archelon retired. I headed east and scored a big role on Broadway as a lout who spends all day on the couch watching the Oblomov Ballet on an analog TV. My performance was based on a log I saw in the forest. It had fallen without making a sound, until I heard it, in the misty pluperfect, next to a Walgreen’s. Memories refract on the pavement at night, and this, too, makes a sound, somewhat like butter spreading on a slice of bread. And then the horns blast everything into marmalade. 

 

The Newest Goo In Evolution

The mystery of consciousness is a crackling fire that repels darkness. Although, it’s generally in darkness, when I’m lying awake in bed, that consciousness feels most emphatic and real. It’s why I’ve always been drawn to language, either in literature, or in conversation. The marrow under the glitter of the world’s distractions enriches the scorch of the written word. Where the words clutter there is inflammation. Unresolved conflicts take a lot of words. A lot of words to plaster wounds. A lot of words to come up with illuminating narratives. I’ll gladly accept the illusory when it makes enough sense to stabilize my inner chaos until I can find a nugget of mineral truth. When consciousness is shared with the voices coming out of a radio it has a calming effect. Unless, of course, you fall asleep and wake up to hear one of the more nightmarish scenarios in Orwell’s 1984 dramatized by a troupe of British actors. The imagination is exceptionally susceptible when first waking up. You’re in a hypnopompic state. The division between the real and the unreal is vague and ephemeral. Luckily, a radio dial is easily changed. Or turned off. It’s often those crazy, unsolicited thoughts that pop out of nowhere that are hardest to avoid, or get rid of. I can see how Spicer was so fascinated by lines of poetry coming out of a radio à la Jean Marais sitting in a Rolls Royce hearing lines of resistance poetry coming out of the radio.

Robin Blaser called it “The Practice of the Outside,” an essay which appears in the 1980 Black Sparrow Press edition of The Collected Books of Jack Spicer. “It is within language that the world speaks to us with a voice that is not our own,” Blaser writes. “This is I believe, a first and fundamental experience of dictation and correspondence – the dead speaking to us in language is only one level of the outside that ceaselessly invades our thought…Jack’s discipline of emptying himself in order to allow his language to receive an other than himself may be traced back to his tradition and sources, but he works there independently and fiercely…Here I could place him among his direct peers – Poe, Mallarmé, Artaud and Duchamp in their emphasis upon loss of meaning turning into necessity of meaning…This brings us to a ‘recommencement of perception’ that has barely begun, and within it, we re-enter a composition of the real.”

Beyond the parameter of conventional prose is a universe of counterintuitive laws and a mercurial intermingling, an impish reversal of roles and attitudes. Is it, for example, the writer who is the metaphor of the spider or the spider that of the writer? Monotony goes into a mailbox. There’s no easy answer in a Carrollian jungle of frumious bandersnatch and flamingo croquet. What happens when we remove the threat of control from the wild enticements rooted in language is a renaissance of psychotropical mind, an explosion of growth and pleasure vital to the irrationality of poetry and the health and diversity of the language itself. This is the kiss that set our hair on fire. We sexualize our nouns against concentrates of power and lose ourselves to lobster quadrilles and semantic play. The way in which language is experienced is seminal to psychic life. The mind is vulnerable. There are so many things that can fuck it up. Language has talismanic powers. If you seek them out, they’re there. Phylacteries. Fetishes. Abraxas. It's a complex siege against the pulleys and networks and puppetry of contemporary life.

If things get overly rational, I’ll drop a rattle in this sentence. Pick it up and shake it. It’s filled with the cruel jewels of misrule. Brightness, clarity, palpability. Johann Sebastian Bach. Claude Debussy. Counterpoint. The way things shine after a summer rain. The blaze of silver on all the rails. The insane beauty of it hurts the eyes. The deeply interiorized world of literature is exploded into full-spectrum light. The mind scintillates outside the bounds of habituated and programmed compatibility. Cassady strides down the rails, and the gleam of the locomotive verifies the battle between aesthetics and the blunt pragmatism that keeps the whole thing going.

More than any other single invention, writing has transformed human consciousness. Said Walter J. Ong, author of Orality and Literacy: The Technologizing of the Word.

Here’s something else he said: “Many of the features we have taken for granted in thought and expression in literature, philosophy and science, and even in oral discourse among literates, are not directly native to human existence as such but have come into being because of the resources which the technology of writing makes available to human consciousness.”

Can there be consciousness without language? Of course. Language is new. It’s the newest goo in evolution to get pummeled into the brain. However much I try, I can’t think without it. Maybe, for a brief time in meditation, I might experience an entire minute or two without a backdrop of language, the monkey mind swinging from vowel to vowel, consonant to consonant. I look at the cat and think, what’s it like in there? The eyes of the cat look directly into mine. I sense inquiry in them. Not much else. Interest. Absorption. Involvement. Engagement. Reverie. Reverie might be going a bit too far. I look at the cat. She looks at me. Her eyes are jewels of solitude. She turns her head, lifts her hind leg, and goes to work on cleaning her paw. Whatever is going on in her mind, it’s not entirely correspondent to mine, if only because I don’t bend my foot to my mouth and begin licking it, or purr when somebody rubs my belly, or hiss at the smug and fraudulent proposals of a multibillionaire on TV. Animals, I suspect, are blithely unaware of ownership, or the psychosis of Wall Street and its mania for bonds and blockchains and compound interest.

Dogs and cats do have instincts about people. Were it to take the form of language, we might not understand them. On the other hand, their perceptions might strike us as shockingly familiar. Uncle X is a lout who believes in nothing but his own ego. And his farts stink. But I do like the way he strokes my chin. Life among us felines is highly complex, as you might’ve guessed. We’re not like dogs. Dogs get happy about anything. We spend our leisure in deep oblivion. Window sills are ideal for soaking up the sunlight. Trust me. Be glad cats don’t talk. Owls are far more interesting. Cows are surprisingly brilliant. Worms are the words unsaid by the lonesome dirt. Spiders speak in filaments of protein. Octopi communicate by changing their shape and color. Text is texture. Chromatophores. Thought lights up on the skin. Paper thin. But eloquent.

Speculations are fun at first, but inevitably get circular and go nowhere, which is frustrating, and leaves one craving the hard realities of stone and oak and the heat of the stove. A silence in which consciousness rediscovers itself as a high-level awareness steeped in nothingness. Out pops a word. And another and another. And gets the ball rolling. 

 

The Séance Of Speech

I lift the insults and carry them to the fire. I feel the heat thickening around me. That glorious moment where, on the edge of the world, the mute existence of mud and pine complement the séance of speech. A creature of black signs on a sheet of white paper trembles in the light of our mutiny. Can you put something hot in it? Something life-giving and generous? A little focus, a little concentration. I find your demeanor a little rattan. A bit rickety. Maybe you could use a mimosa. The sun is just now spilling its gold in the water as it sinks below the horizon. I gave a bohemian finger to this painting, and swirled it around. Later, in our room, we'll sit beside the pipes as they hiss and steam and authorize a start to our conversation. The whole point of a conversation is a good laugh. This includes the ongoing dialogue in my head. Which is a different kind of circus. All the lions are ions. And all my regrets ride merry-go-rounds. 

Each word floats in amniotic peace as retinal nerves flash its opacity to the brain. The piano produces a rondo for this shape. It has a tremolo, and seems a little unsteady. Remember: the metamorphosis was a bas-relief before it walked the earth. I retired from the physiology of a robin. I had to. It was early summer, and I felt more like Iggy Pop than Igor Stravinsky. An incident is what happens before a propeller creates a wake. It’s the kind of song that makes you get a little goofy. A flickering line dances where a little gravity lingers. We may witness a paradigm shift before the next generation arrives. It may improbably happen with this call to the delegates. Our effervescence is sown in concentration. In a noisy kitchen in Nice. The bouillabaisse of the mind, the quiet simmer of contemplation. I include the meridional with the velvet and put an easel by the waterfall. I like this mahogany, it’s free of anything specific.

I never thought life would be like this in old age. Mythical, weird, apocalyptic. Roman. As during the reign of Caligula. I’d envisioned more Emerson, more Whitman, more Thoreau. What was I thinking? Had I never read Camus? Had I never read Schopenhauer? I was lost in the forests of rumination where flowers of beautiful rhetoric are as diverse as cemeteries and authentic as genitalia. I try to keep my anomalies intact to protect myself from all the incongruities within anonymous Being. Then along came Larry David who inspired me to write an angry book about people who park their cars with a defiant and breathtaking insouciance. It suited a world in which inundations of spermatic ink could no longer support the hideous truth lying on top of me like a succubus. I was unnerved by the clatter of adjectives, the uncanny poise of the evergreens amid the Lynchian fury of Snoqualmie Falls. Speech is the common vapor emanating from the warmth of our blood. Attempts to block its passage result in delirium, fever, and gangrene. The myth of world which creates us and which we create is an unceasing runaway train. And stirrings of the secret life beneath the skin exhilarate to the lift of an airplane.  

 

The Abiogenesis Of Things

I need a knife to cut a loaf of bread and a key to open an old caress. I need a match to light a candle and a hammock in Polynesia to sift a cindery rumination. I need a book to open my mind and a broken heart to cast shadows in the street. A similar slow eye and a Dutch painting to walk out of a woman’s pearl. A reason for being and a reason for not being. A window, a door, and some extraordinary plumage. An excellent soft bed. A plate of steaming algebra. A bucket of sounds encountered by the shore. I have a chest of drawers for things such as this and Friday wheels and Tuesday glass and the soul of a knitter in the guise of a surgeon. I operate tomorrow on a lark of bitter alphabets. I do have a set of preferences when it comes to fabric softeners, though I remain neutral on the subject of chasms. I favor the leap of the chameleon to the monotony of refrigerators humming in chorus during the birth of ice. There are things that happen so easily that it takes years to understand them. Sooner or later you find yourself at the edge of a diving board preparing to jump into the void. And life feels raw. And life feels real.

Life, as we know it, requires cellular structure, metabolism, and a Barcalounger. A chemically unstable environment ignites its predicates. Gets it going, as it were. Walking. Strolling. Collecting things. Smelling things. Selling things. Malleable forms and good solid friends furnish our world with forks and jelly. Invention is three-fifths cough syrup and two-fifths quirk. The first time I saw a lazy Susan was at an IHOP. And the first time I journeyed through Proust I felt soulful and difficult. No one thought of saving a dream with a mass of words until the dream became reality and reality became a sweaty Monday in a friend’s attic with a typewriter and a bottle of Scotch. Did you know that there are fish in the insanely fathomless depths of the ocean that glow like a Venetian lantern? A broken hammer is still a hammer. Context and function are eccentric pods of mystical absorption. And this is where life truly begins, in the depths by hydrothermal vents & random associations.

An organism is a storm of fire, a point of novelty experiencing itself as a rose, an amoeba, or a Granny Smith. As a body of prose attempting to animate a creature with four legs and fur, or build a city of gowns and toothpicks. As a kiss. As a crawl. As a greeting on a stairway. As a poem of deep patterns recapitulating waffles and claws. If the bare bones of existence distress the mind, the planet soothes it with poplars and birds. Life is something larger than what is contained in the body. The energy that drives it is a shaggy diffusion of immeasurable vogue. There is a time for needles and a time for opinions. Now is the time for timpani. Kettledrums and vermicelli. Little linguistic tricks that work like polymers to expand the outward drift of things, the abilities of limbs and the blithe transactions of tentacles. Nerves. Veins. Sensory membranes. The procreational giddiness that causes the living to embrace the perversions of art. Strip utility of its power. Dress in the negligees of leisure. Bring a fabulous benevolence to the daily warehouse, and sit down and have your lunch on a picnic table, near an oak, or by a river.

An Early Evening In Late March

My considered harm is to be a compass. To greenhouse into mirrors makes the incident olfactory. It is better to sand the swell than sway in tergiversation. My ochre hustles the crust forward, where it might breathe, and become translucent. I write it through the jug. The tension generates us to poke, and to polish the bloom at the lip of its husk. It will always be muscle that herds the aerodrome geese. Elbows help me think. It comes easier when my head is supported by swans. I feel a slipping of the guts after a rain. I rise, and advance by instigation. Movement plays an invaluable role among the goldfish. Jane Austen sits at her desk designing a blowtorch. Tiny languages pelt the window. What to attract to my essential need is a frequent problem. If it isn’t Jane Austen, it must be something else. In order to generate sleep, we do push-ups. We do them on the ceiling. Our wings grow out of the calculations used to explore a feeling. Time and again the words build a mighty grammar. If you give me a baseball bat I will feel it inside this sentence. There are no speed limits within the fourth dimension. Just persuasion, and corollaries. 

Time itself feels suspended. It’s an early evening in late March. Soon to be April. There are repeated volleys of thunder, which hardens the muscle, and precipitates cheese. I do like ataraxia, but this isn’t the weather for that. We put yoga mats on the car windows in case it hails. One must assist that sunlight under the skin or lose it to progress. Even when times were vertical we brushed them with stunning bikinis to make them shine horizontally. Concentrating on the harmonica helps perforate the time. I like the expansion of the concertina more for the radical pleasure of its boil than the gleam of its civility. And as for storms, I love the sound of thunder. It’s the music of chaos. Crustaceans gaze at a champagne cork. Waves swell, crest, and crash on the shore. I’ve seen it all before. The first light of dawn crawling over the cabbage. The waitress coming to the table with a pot of coffee. The trickle beneath the bronze is sign of fever. Don’t let it confuse you. Just point to the item on the menu and say that’s it, that’s what I want. And if she answers that’s what everybody wants, smile, and shape your voice into a bouquet of snapdragon.

Undulations of any sort arouse my interest. If I swallow the sun when the scales break I can place some candy behind the horizon for entertainment. It’s all about waves. You should structure your door so it may open to a visceral thought. Everything is always so counterclockwise. If you pull hard enough the spirits will quack. I can feel it. Can you? The constant glimmer of details. Have you ever felt like you were standing in a room alone by a window reading a letter? If you can paint the sound of fire you can box a suede syncopation in a humble velocity. I’ve seen such things happen. Palominos crest a hill. Hummingbirds thunder in a courtyard. Howlin’ Wolf walk into Sun Records for the first time. The bohemian universe attacks a dilemma with pullulation and jokes. Notice what a nipple does during nerves. There are indentations on the furniture that brawl in the light when the curtains open. And there are moments when the present fills with the past so intensely they switch places and pluck romance out of the air. The surrounding dystopia retreats into the shadows. And Mary Shelley walks in.

 

Lost In Space

R comes in to tell me the astronauts stranded in the space station for 286 days splashed down near the Florida coast. And I wonder what that felt like to be trapped in space all that time and then touch down on earth and breathe fresh, atmospheric air again. Like that time I went to prison as part of a writer’s group that visited inmates and talked about writing and literature and a few hours later when we exited the prison how lushly detailed and sensuous the world seemed, as if I hadn’t been paying sufficient attention the whole time I’d been alive.

I used to get that feeling in my dad’s workshop when I came home to visit from California. The smell of freshly sawn wood mingled with the shine of chisels and the powwow of pipe clamps on the wall. Even radios sound different in workshops; they sound like a voice healing the language with diction, even though everything said is a lie or a fib or a gross distortion it serves the energy of the language. Because it’s a calliope of nuclear syllables and opens the gate to oxymorons. Sparkling inconsistencies. Haunting mascaraed eyes. West Virginia garage sales. 

We’re used to thinking about space as the setting in which a number can precisely measure the distance between two points. A point in space can be unequivocally characterized as a collection of three numbers (x, y, z) on three axes. It can also be described as a large, roomy pavilion with lattice walls admitting breezes from every quarter of the compass, or the flaming gold sunset over the Columbia river gorge in August, 1988 when Bob Dylan sang “I Shall Be Released,” or that moment in the summer of 1964 when my chute opened and I dangled in the sky, marveling at the Skagit Valley, and the bird flying under me.

The architecture of doubt excites our flapping. We nap in the high vaulted ceilings of the Renaissance. Because we’re bats. And sound the world with radar. I’m pinging off a bank of hills right now, feeling the shape of the landscape, allowing my desires to become music, and echo their elaborate schemes.

Clouds are machines for bringing rain to the earth. We can do that, can’t we? Float. Drift. Clump. Piss on the ground.

I carved the electricity myself, using a jackknife and a rock.

You may have noticed I now wear hearing aids and suspenders. I’m at that age. Timelessness gets embryonic near the promenade. But here it’s just a clock. And embodies a principle of tea.

My intentions tremble in sympathy. This is my seminal ebony, the moment when they wake up the balcony, and we launch ourselves into anonymity, breaking chaos into bits of inertia.

I only use overdrive if I’m captured by the moonlight and have a hard time keeping my eyes on the road and my hands on the wheel. I believe there’s a formula for this. Tools. Exercises. Operations. Procedures. Handsprings. Somersaults. Cartwheels. Walking upside-down on a chair while singing the national anthem. It always works best in the nude. I don’t know why. Some things come alive via the magic of permeation. Being. And the trickle of verisimilitude.

Space is an abstract concept that describes the relationships between objects and the forces that act upon them, and is the framework within which all physical phenomena occur, acting as the "stage" upon which events in the universe unfold. In other words, space is the three-dimensional expanse in which all matter exists. Which is why it’s so easy to get lost in space. There’s so much furniture.

Getting lost is no easy matter. I got lost once with some friends in a forest of eucalyptus near Santa Cruz, California. I can’t remember how we managed to find our way out. Maybe we didn’t. Maybe, in some sense, I’m still surrounded by eucalyptus, imaginary eucalyptus, abstract emissions of sexual syntax which defy mahogany and ramble along in a trajectory of hasty incisions in the fabric of space and time. I can sometimes hear the murmur of stars in a canopy of canvas, bright maniacal colors chained to a linguistic engine in a glimpse of delirium. It could also be the lobby to a hotel in Deadwood, South Dakota. I can often identity a location by the number of chandeliers or the clash between meanings in an allegory of punching bags and sweat.

But please. Let’s not get carried away. Language can only do so many things. It works by magic, we know that, but its movements are similar to that of the Komodo dragon, which uses a variety of libidinal adjectives to describe Cézanne, and can attain a speed of thirty turtles an hour. One would be well served to use language carefully, and with a view toward celerity and chiaroscuro.

Space is to language what language is to clouds. Participles participate in this clasp as it anchors. You can walk over there to greet a Cubist. There, in this context, references a staircase built to resemble the staircase of the Loretto Chapel in Santa Fe, New Mexico, which spirals in 360 degree turns with no visible means of support, and looks like a DNA molecule made of spruce. If you happen to slide into the house of yourself as if by magic, you can always slide back out again if you use a bald excuse and a nearby shrub to use as a prop. Life is essentially theater. We’ve known that all the time, and yet I continually forget my lines, and stub my toe on the magazine stand. My biology does not allow for flying or hanging from the ceiling folded in my wings. I do have a certain position in bed that launches me into hypnopompic carnivals, and echolocation and songs. My more considered view requires a compass, because there is a curve to space, and cranberries and sewing kits. It helps to be experimental. Even better to be in touch.