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May 10, 2005
a sinderdrome as uncut as the dribbled snow
Sometimes I see, maybe even get to looking at and/or for, the white specks on the floor. I swear it’s a very odd, and matched coincidence and not flawed or disproportionate perception that these last two apartments have on the dark wood floors an inordinate number of small white specks from no immediately apparent source. I pick them up for a closer look, to see if they might be smokable, spilled and unnoticed product from this or another session, even though sometimes I know it was already id’ed as a paint chip and tossed back down, not worth carting out to the kitchen can, or realizing that the goods were never in that area, or that in general it’s ridiculous, even neurotic, and sometimes definitely OCD as well, such as the not too uncommon pulling of the jacket pockets inside out to pull apart the seams for the rugged bright tiny peas line up in a row there. These are in fact likely spaces in which to lose spillage so the prospecting is not a problem but it is exactly for the logic and likelihood that I get in trouble, why I will look repeatedly, despite being quite thorough the first time, and despite my telling the choir audience of my personhood calmly and convincingly how stupid futile pathetic and so on it is, and my audience self fully appreciating that reproaching analysis and disagreeing not one bit, decides to indulge a seeing it through, the achievement of completion, because, well, it’ll just make me feel better. A lot of times I’ll be able to find real bitty bits. Sometimes attempt to scoop ‘em up—difficult even with larger prey, impossible at this level and scale, and then not enough to even taste let alone feel anyway. Other times I let them go. Other times I poke my head up above the cloud line for a bit and tell myself that even if I found a whole other dime, it would not solve a single problem, only intensify the ones I already have, add more to the pile, and delay the resolution of and relief from them all. True it is my answering part says with unflagging undiluted sincerity. But it wouldn’t keep him from consuming any find he might be blessed with. Oh, God, Please.
Other people must get stuck there too. I’m sure I’ve seen it, in fact. I wonder if it’s been identified by medical science. What is it’s name?
Posted by peligrito at May 10, 2005 4:30 AM
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