the_unnamable

In some ways I was Zampano, but mostly I was the Fool.

Staring out at the green grass through the second-floor slats of my office window as the aural smoke of Joni Mitchell stirs and shapes about my fuzzy head. The Hissing of Summer Lawns is always one of my favorite albums. Physically I have both a CD saved from flooded car (my frame exiting Atlantean car into waist-deep rushing torrent with Joni in hand) and vinyl, cardboard case worn from years of turning the cover over in my hands. But as sweet a joy the album can be, it fills me with quiet sadness as well. "Her Paris dress, with runs in her nylons" recalls memories, love lost, though never really. Except I dreamed of her last night, crisply and brilliantly. She was otherwise engaged in the dream as well. I suppose it's just that each song carries me away into the ideal of memory bittersweet and sublime, but it's a journey I can never refuse.

Chocoscapes of rolling fudge hills and the quaintness of whipped terraform, cherries and candy dotting skycakers and red velvet yards.

"That sounds good to me. Again, I'll defer to you for any decision making. Within reason of course," she says. I'm tempted, but I don't understand. I fear my fingers can't findpress the right buttons.

When the elevator at work closes, encapsulating you, you see at roughly your breast height a smudge across the reflectively impenetrable stainless steel surface. In it are what looks like three lines of scrawled cursive which changes on whim, weather, light, mood, love. Today:

I
carefully
headed nowhere

Who is it? With blackdark coffee sluicing through veins after so long, I'm here. Reading Franzen's Freedom for the alliteration, simply biding my time until April's cruel release of the not-Dallas Fort Worth's The Pale King.

And sometimes when I'm falling, flying, or tumbling in turmoil, I say, "Whoa! So this is what she means."

Appointments have been made successfully; I'm well on my way toward first tattoodom. By the first week of October, I shall have a fantastic bearded lady adorning my left bicep. Oh, names! Names!

Bid bye by me a morning back, my baby brother, by moment, bides by Baltimore, Maryland, missed.

So I go to visit/kittysit Tobias this evening.

Intricately motioning limbs, under the false pretense of waking life, dissembled my alarm this morning and I was woken by sun stealing through my bedroom curtains. "Shouldn't be sunny yet," my inner voice says to nobody in particular.

Seeing as I should have been at work twenty-odd minutes ago, I bathed, pilled, and dressed in what I could find, which happened to be black dress pants, jacket, and black and gray striped shirt. I look as if I'm going to a funeral.

I'm working on a new project: a beard. I'll update you when things get interesting.

After arriving at work this morning and unlocking my door, I started to notice a weight in my left jacket pocket. Sunglasses? Harmonica? I slowly glanced down and was greeted by a bewhiskered stowaway.



Getting acquainted, she sat on my barcode scanner for most of the morning, listening to everyone from The Roches to Rufus. But eventually I had to run downstairs for some silly project and when I came back up to my office, my little rabbitine friend was nowhere to be found. A quick examination of the stacks found her posing in our humble Russian literature section, playfully moving the ribbon bookmarks in Pushkin collections.



She went with me on my lunchtime excursion to the used bookstore, and was complemented for her panache.

Here's where I am on the scarf I've been working on for my brother's birthday. It's only two weeks away, so I'm not completely sure I'll be finished but I also got him an amazing book of rockstar gravesites.

I started with this incredibly intricate pattern that repeated every twenty rows, but it didn't really work out with the variegated yarn so I restarted with a simple knit/purl. In this case it's just better to showcase the colors of the yarn.