Thursday, February 26, 2015

Dreams I Can Only Imagine

Well, I decline the invitation and end up just sitting in bed like an old man, reading and writing at 2 a.m., happy enough, actually more than happy, while the old dog dozes and farts her way through dreams I can only imagine. Would it have been different if - when briefly drawing the curtain - there was either moonlight or stars? Yet by morning more snow is falling - fat flakes mixed with tiny flakes - not driven so much as lazy - as in "we'll get there when we get there" - and my back aches extra in anticipation of shoveling but so what. The coffee tastes pretty damn good and for once I'm not a bunch of guys writing but just this one guy. As a matter of fact, I will have a burger with those fries, and also extra fries. Rereading Faraday's The Chemical History of A Candle, which prompts Chrisoula to say "I bet he was a lot of fun in the dark," to which there is clearly a subtext but not one I immediately understand, being more Faradayish than not. Also Husserl's Introduction to Transcendental Phenomenology while taking notes, which Chrisoula understands means don't interrupt, don't make jokes. You can't head North forever! Christ it's a lot of work doing nothing, getting nowhere.

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