072618 Yes, I get it. Even as yoga oxygenates deep, hidden senses beyond “the five,” this practice exercises subsystems of your working memory that have atrophied through the banal cruelties of mundane productivity. For instance, I may remember my guy from this morning (last night)—I can’t go back and look to make sure he’s really there, or was really there, or check what I said about him so far, so I continue (if so moved) *on faith* as it were; and there you go—there’s a connection between faith and memory that I hadn’t thought too much about before. So what about him? Oh yeah, and the other things I’ve been noticing: 1. Schand and Icoul can be friends, *lovers* even! It used to be that jealous Icoul tried very hard—thought it was his *duty* in fact—to *exile* Schand! And then no wonder Schand resented Icoul. 2. we have hints from peeping ahead that the two of them are working toward manifesting a third (Ty Gravl, obviously) 3. the morning one is for pure magma; the fifteen minute preplanned time ones are to desensitize, to de-precious-ize the doing it. To make a physical picture of what the “doing it” even is. Because the stringing together of glyphs is such an abstract (abstruse?) undertaking; it’s just a pattern of energy at the locus of a given time. The stage is always there, your substrate, the blank platform of the secular poem of the moment. It’s no more or less real for a royal company reinventing the mousetrap than it is for two skinny kids in flipflops in the middle of a hike around the lake, festooned with dragonflies, open throated arms akimbo shouting out the latest nonsense verse for an audience of blackbirds and vitamin D Anyway, what about him? 4. And Schand doesn’t totally have to go off by himself while Icoul’s ascendant; see, that was the other thing I had wrong. He *can* actually be in the room now. Now that we are starting to understand each other. He sits over on the rust-coloured plush recliner, smoking by the salvaged end table, the one with fading yellow paint and deep random knife grooves. The heavy glass ashtray the color of green that slows down time and reflects, from deep within its manufactured curves, if you look close enough, images of the good-natured defiance of still-debonair middle-aged men home from the war, combing their hair with a straight black plastic comb. From time to time Schand can say, now, not “No, stop, that’s stupid and doesn’t make sense,” but, “Yeah, go for it baby, let it all out, come on, come on, keep it coming, go with it, roll with it, we can always sort it all out later!” Schand’s way sexier when he does that than Icoul’d ever thought possible! My god! Whod’ve ever thought Icoul could even be having thoughts like that about that crusty old boy sitting over there in this barnboard palace! Anyway, what about him? He doesn’t wear a watch, although most of his friends have stupid Apple ones. That’s not to say he doesn’t do or have *any* stupid or pretentious traits or possessions; he does. I just can’t think of what they are right now because I’m so *thirsty* and the sun’s full out and it’s a perfect 75 degrees with little paintbrush blobs of perfect wet wet clouds in this Milwaukee sky, and we’re hoofing it down to the end of Brady and turning left to go to that one bar he likes. I’m going to, in all honesty, probably have some white wine on the back patio, and he’ll have some kind of vodka drink. All those extra calories, honey, but you know what? It’s OK. We’ll walk it off. Well, a little of it, and then we’ll go back to his apartment on the three-and-a-halfth floor of that funky old house he shares with that funky old girl, and we’ll *fuck* the rest of it off. Only I don’t say that out loud, because that would be crass and kind of spoil the spider-delicate mood we’ve got going here, this afternoon, day drinking with my best new weird old friend.