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Fifty-Fifth Sitting

A Man passed I while stalking pale shadows on this an October the 30th morn, and His name... His name, He said, was Mad. He pointed to the sky and spoke of the full moon lying just out of eyeshot. I gave Him My book, at which He took a look, whilst I stood and examined My shoes. They were there, but kept changing, dissolving and fading until I forgot whose was whose. And as He finished He started to curse Me out of a terrific enraged jealousy, for He too would expose His pent-up Tormatos (<-His word), if He only had not lacked the skill to compose enough surrounding textual fluff so as to make It palatable. "Well, heck," I said. "Write a chapter or so, and I'll edit It down and use It." At this He was overjoyed. He gripped Me lapelwise, lifted Me up, and kissed Me, so glad was He. Yes, He said, He would write, He said, and use Me to do so, He twitched and said...


This is a nasty actual dream I just had, with exactly that amount of verse, I swear to Sophie. (Ah, My Sophie. I saw Your face last night -- probably the alcohol, though I couldn't feel it. Are you Her incarnation or Her rival? Both? Read on, Sophia; have a taste of My flesh made word, for this is the only chance You'll get, as My heart is taken, You know, if that wasn't already grotesquely obvious.) I've made this dream offering to several different actual people, but no one yet has written My ending. "Everybody wants a eulogy, eh?" you think? No, actually I wanted something totally irrelevant. Mayhaps I'll get a parking ticket or something that I can copy the text from and call it "Epilogue."

Ah, but I forget there is more "logue" to relate, and I must bring you up to speed, up through all the events that took place until this time one moon ago (yes, it is still Saturday morning), even if I have to lie in bed all day to do it. Sorry: It. Hey, now... stop objecting to this gratuitous mystic vaguification. As Jung would say (p. 577): "What [the bleedin' heck] is the use of a religion without a mythos, since religion means, if anything at all, precisely that function that links us each to the eternal myth." As My mother would say (in that nasty parental confuse-the-child way): "You've just got an excuse for everything, don't you?" Yup.


We drove east. Well, not immediately, as We first did a bit of minor shopping, showering, packing lunches, and gazing longingly into each other's eyes (Well, maybe that was just Me. Narcissism, you know). But eventually, We drove east. The road was beautiful: lots of rolling hills, open vistas, great forests, and just the coolest snow and sky phototechnics ya ever did see on a sunny afternoon. I played with the radio for a while, forcibly switching the station every time a commercial would intrude, but She soon put a stop to that, leaving Us -- thankfully -- having to talk. I made a point of turning on to any random side road that looked like it might lead up a mountain. The first attempt of this sort nearly got us stuck in mud on a path that was obviously intended only for plastic Malibu Barbie Dream Machines, and not Our... what was it?

That was exactly the question We argued over as We continued driving after getting ourselves unstuck, a maneuver that involved driving well over 300 yards in reverse and a lot of bemused low-volume screaming: What kind of car was this? I could have sworn it was a Saab or Subaru or something, but She said Mitsubishi. But I was damn sure it wasn't that; I don't even think Mitsubishi makes cars... TV's, Yes, VCR's and stereos, but not cars. It's like driving a Magnavox. Why We couldn't just look somewhere in the car to settle this dispute I don't know; I don't think We wanted to... We said We'd check at the next stop, so as to declare a winner in what I now proposed to Her as a bet. We weren't sure what to bet, but eventually She came up with the idea of having Me vacuum the whole apartment if She won...

"Okay, well... if I win, then You have to kiss Me."

"What? You can't bet things like that. I can't do that. I am so sure."

I thought some more and finally came up with Her having to read the whole book and write a report on it. She was none too pleased with that option either... So when We stopped on a dirt road that seemed to be going no place save the continued circumference of a small circle just off the main road, but yet was still within clear view of some hills, a lake, some empty forest service trucks, and a large pile of gravel, it wasn't clear if a bet had been made or not. I claimed no, of course, as I lost.

"I thought you'd try to weasel out," She said.

"Tell me that you wouldn't have if you'd lost."

"Yeah, well..." She shrugged as We climbed up on the gravel, which seemed the most climbable of the aforementioned nearby structures. "I'll read the book anyway... eventually."

"So if you had lost, would you have written the report?"

"No... I probably would have kissed You."

I was frankly appalled by Her shocking licentiousness, and remained so even as She insisted that She would have merely kissed Me briefly on the elbow or something. Mitsubishi doesn't make cars... What was I thinking?


Oh, no you don't. Get back in the car.


Like all the other times We stopped mid-route, We didn't initially stop, but passed the spot, then sort of braked, slowing right in the middle of the road for a look behind, then put on the brakes hard, debating as the shoulder straps tightened whether or not We had time for this, then sped back in reverse so as not to miss what We'd missed. This time it was a beautiful and no doubt extremely cold river surrounded by the fixin's of a national park, with the exception that, like the last stop and the stop before, there were no people in sight. Just Her and Me alone together in a vast expanse featuring many opportunities to hurt ourselves. The latest example of this was a sheer cliff face rising some two or three stories to the woodlands above; this I immediately proclaimed My intention to scale. She suggested ascending via the gradually-sloped grassy area immediately to its left, and I wisely agreed. And though My knee hurt like a bitch, need I say I was having a good time? Need I say I was so happy I could burst all over the side of that hill? The slope wasn't so gradual at some points, so We had to make handrails out of the many small trees, and failing this, reach into the cracks between the rocks. Hey, I haven't drawn any lizard analogies yet, have I? No? Good.

She reached to the top before Me and coached my ascent: "Don't fall," She said. She gave Me a hand up the last step and the vista was Ours. We looked down at Our small rental car and mutually wondered what We would do if someone right then leapt out behind a bush and started to steal it. We determined that there weren't any compellingly interesting paths to follow at Our new plateau, so We descended once again to the riverbank and joked about the possibility of pushing each other in.


Oh, let's cut to the chase. What did I do to deserve this? Oh, not Her presence, which is totally wonderful, or Her present lack of presence, which generally sucks but is probably best until She gets Her stuff sorted out... I mean the whole thing: the messiness, the ambivalence, the part that seems from a certain basic pint of view to be totally fucked up... I can trace it back, yes! (I've really got to if I want the whole dredge-up-my-youth therapy to seem even mildly sensible), to a time when I flirted with simplicity and rejected it... sort of. And this time is rushing headlong into NOW.

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