|
sublingua | |||||
| The heart with a mind of its own.(Be present.) | The mind with a heart of its own.(It's past.) | The dream that is your waking life.(Go there now.) | |||
|
part VIII: differentially yours
dearest-- well, i don't think i'll be calling that woman of the purses, although i am a bit more inclined to cut her some slack in re: her lack of business acumen as she did sit, unprotected, in the new mexican june sun for three solid days and i could, on particularly hot afternoons, hear a distinct sizzling sound coming from her neck--of the woods, i mean. i wanted the virgin of guadalupe purse to take to the opera, but then, i remembered that, not only do i not carry purses, but that i already have an opera purse not to carry--one that i purchased in syndney when we saw romeo and juliet at the sydney opera house and i think in this case that it would be a travesty to let that purse sit unused in the closet through yet another opera while i purchased yet another purse to not use for opera purposes. besides, if i'm tied up with purse juggling, how am i going to be able to keep my mind on juggling other things, what with my opera companions being x, max and neo? this is dilemma, as pavel might say. and the x: and the x, indeed. i, through some inhuman willpower that has been granted to me by the gods, have never made a play for the x. i guess i've made a fool out of myself enough times over max's other co-workers (including at one point max's ex-boss papa, a thankfully happily married man, and, sadly, another time there was one poor boy named fromme who was about the size and shape of an oompa loompa but who had an attractive goatee--i love me some facial hair on the boys, yeah) so that perhaps i've been granted some exemption on the x front. but i have to admit that there have been times when the x has presented himself as some sort of unsolvable puzzle that one might perhaps conceive of as being quite fun to tangle with for however long it might take one to tire of such a puzzling boy, and, since his rules apparently forbid do-overs. . . well, yeah. yeah. sometimes. it's best. to just. give in. i'm thinking. so, i'm a let the chips fall where they may kind of mood. which is dangerous. which is the dangerous kind of mood that one gets into right before one decides to start mucking about and wrecking things. how this plays out with neo is: i'm trying to hold back from the mucking and the wrecking. but so's he, and consequently there's not much happening to speak of. of course, there have been a few oblique discussions about the whole adultery thing being one of the Big Ten--but with no names mentioned. i think the word might be as good as the deed in his mind when it comes to the married woman dilemma, but i'm going for the deed here, sister. ain't no woman ever been satisfied with a word, unless that word was "uncle." maybe? um. also? also, i'm trying the whole be patient thing with him--just for practice, you understand, as i don't intend on making patience a habit. it's all wait and see at this point, don't you know. and that's fine for the moment. other than that, there has been a whole lot of nothing going on. i'm sorry to hear about the case of the missing dirty underwear. isn't that always the way though? you replace all the old granny panties with nice new black granny panties and then some old pervert can't resist them. (wait, we may have hit on some foolproof method for catching old perverts--you know, in case the whole buddhist thing doesn't pan out.) maybe you can get those sleuthing kids from 3-2-1 contact to come in and solve the case of the missing dirty undies. i'm thinking that they, having been out of work for so long, would be glad for any kind of case at this point. but they might have moved on to greener pastures--like 3-2-1 contact, the movie, or at least 3-2-1 contact: the later years on lifetime, television for women. (am i making any sense here? god, i hope not.) i myself have never been the victim of underwear theft, given that i am given to wearing only men's boxers that i buy in thrift stores--and that's not a lie i'm going to continue with because i'm kind of grossing myself out here. neo wears boxers. how cute is that? and, no, don't ask how i know. sometimes, one is just desperate to keep up one's end of the conversation. . .not true, my dear. not true. we're still doing faulker and hemingway and fitzgerald in my endless english classes. i'm so not up to the american existentialists. i ditched class today--which is not something one does with marquez, as there is usually hell to pay for it the next day, as he used to be in the marines, and likes to see people doing pushups, mental or otherwise. and i'm not talking pushup bras here, neither, sister. though if i tried to wear one of those, i'd end up suffocating myself or something. and why has the subject of underwear suddenly consumed me? i started out talking about faulkner and hemingway and fitzgerald, for chrissakes. they were all tighty-whitey kinds of guys and only hem had any use for an adjustment protocol, i'd bet. we know that zelda had scott's in a jar on her desk, and faulkner. well, faulkner was from the south and those boys ain't got none to speak of if they know the rules of gentlemanship or grammar, i think. (i'm still making no sense, am i? god, i hope not.) but, yes, you're right. there has been a paucity of sanity and privacy in my little hovel as of late. i'm trying to do the mime thing anymore, which doesn't work so much for phone conversations. i'm thinking interpretive dance comes next, though i did exhaust my skills of said with the chinese and what's left might scare a neo, what with all the ghosts in his life being dancers--exotic and otherwise. i don't know. i didn't know when i started, and i still don't know now. you? sublingua
More lies:
|
|||||