At the risk of appearing facile, I really don’t have much to say at the moment. In life, I mean. That’s why I haven’t become a writer yet. But I was thinking a thing or two, so here’s what I was thinking and didn’t say:
Theoretical Landscape: Dylan wasn’t actually in a room of televisions or projections on walls. So where was he sitting with his brother in arms? In his brain, of course. Projecting out onto the walls of the world. One is never alone in one’s own mind, never alone at all.
Athlete’s Foot in Public: An Impossible Situation.
The situation’s impossible anyhow. What’s there to say to strangers, having been foisted upon them semi-involuntarily, people that could go on unknown and undifferentiated quite happily really. Watch the hostess’ cat clean itself, moving from head to belly, belly to balls, inner thigh outer thigh, and finally to foot. That tongue, like a boar’s head bristle brush. Getting at an itch deep in there between the toes. Damn it! You need to clean between your toes! A bristle-brush tongue to clean every inch of heel, toe, foot burning in your boots. Black boots, shiny boots of leather. Not so shiny anymore. Haven’t been polished since the 6th month. Now they’re like a coarse layer of skin, your skin: ashy, wrinkled, and somewhere between brown and black. And itchy in some spots. Go home. Shower. Salve. Sleep.