080218 Early morning dreams are such a comforting place lately which is why i’ve been missing the absolute earliest get right up and write moments, and have been settling for the second or third pressing. it’s not horrible, i mean, even the cheap olive oil will saute your onions if you know what i mean, but i suppose if i were really doing this one hundred per cent correctly there would be no snooze alarm. Did Dorothea mention anything like that? I can’t remember. But the times when the dream is really clear and punchy like a tv show, those times i do generally get right up because i definitely don’t want to lose those. When it’s just a general feeling of flowingness and hypnosis and rhythm and harmony, with perhaps the occasional interesting phrase popping up out of the stew now and then, those times it’s way easier to hit snooze a couple of times. My muscles just feel so good at those moments, all rubberized and weightless and resonant, unlike the end of the day when i take my evening walk and i feel like beer bottle stalking down the street, whump, whump, whump, bloated and stiff, mouth hangin half open in the way of old men collecting their last few strands of air before there aren’t any more, concentrating on nothing so hard as on just breathing and staying more or less in one upright piece. In the morning I’m the coke; in the evening I’m the bottle. Time to send me back for a deposit, yeah? Gladwell (ugh) in his 2008 article about late-blooming genius said something that echoed a thing Dorothea had said: he referred to someone as having had a wife who encouraged him to write down his stories instead of just telling them down at the pub. Dorothea had said how the subconscious doesn’t really care either way; the storytelling impulse is gratified sometimes even just by idly *thinking* about the stories (don’t I know it! With my nebulous subtextual episodes as I walk or drive the LLV!), let alone taking the trouble to sit alone and take the time and energy to write them. Didn’t someone else say that too? Yes, it was Maupin, who said near the end of *Logical Family* that someone or other had helped him decide to bother to “pin down” the stories on paper instead of just talking about them. Quite f ascinatfa afnafod nfoidnf ating Just had a little stroke. Sorry. Someday that joke’s not going to be funny anymore. It’s actually not funny now, but you know what I mean. Health is a weird bastard. Icoul is still half asleep, or three quarters distracted, and this supposedly elite keyboard keeps putting in two spaces instead of one. That’s fucking wonderful. Fuck everything. I’m so tired of making purchases that are supposed to make me elite. They never, ever, ev,er, ever, do. Icoul must still be asleep because the reluctance is strong this morning. I don’t really want to say anything. Like it feels like there’s nothing real to say. Remember Minneapolis? How it felt so urban and urbane? How the air was misty and the wind polushed the gleaming buildings? How the electric train sang, with just a rustic touch of grease and brick to give a musky overtone? How the labyrinth of skywalk was like a waterpark for downtownishness? You could walk all day around this network, this neighborhood hovering above the regular neighborhood. You could practically live in there if you wanted. There were bustling lively loci, with shops and escalators, where it opened up wide like an aviary and connected in every direction to new possibilities to explore, and there were quiet narrow half hidden spaces too—but always the connection was there, and you were never far from a window looking out, the way you look out a train window at the hapless mundania full of dumbly suffering peasants, while you slice through, gliding, hovering, seeing everything but touching nothing—until you choose to descend, temporarily, knowing you always have the option to alight again, and get back on the current that isn’t there. Hey wow! It was like the eBus, the Interhighway, back when it was still modern and thriving and maintained and official! In the years before the decay and the decline and the great forgetting! It must be something like what the eBus is the ruins of! OK, now *that’s* a cool thought. Anything else you want to report on, Schand, for Icoul’s sake, because he’s still asleep? Are you irritated with him yet? Sorry you agreed to this whole rejuvenated partnership yet? (asks the jealous harpy that lives downstairs from us) See, the funny thing about the jealous harpy is that she does hold some allure to Schand. Remember now, he’s the gruff one, he’s the stout one, he’s the endomorph. He’s the one that still really likes pussy sometimes. Wait. Is that true? Or is it Icoul that begs for pussy, but only through the extraverted machinations of Schand’s ability to actually get some? Yeah, that’s it. Icoul loves it when Schand has a girlfriend. Icoul loves the way she smells when she has his sweat and cologne all over her. Icoul loves to be the babied one, the soft one. Icoul loves to lick and suck her juices off Schand’s mushroom-headed cock. Now he’s awake! Nah, I don’t regret it, Schand says. It’s complicated sometimes, we’re complicated, we’re a complicated couple. But I still love him. Icoul melts. Schand smiles at Icoul. Icoul smiles at Schand. The day can begin I guess.