At the back of the hill

Warning: If you stay here long enough you will gain weight! Grazing here strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton. And you might like cheese-doodles.
BTW: I'm presently searching for another person who likes cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Wednesday, December 28, 2016

THE NEW PAJAMAS

My apartment mate sometimes has a faulty memory, whereas I have an in-depth recollection of things from years ago. Both of these are a blessing.
I say this, because I am presently wearing very comfy pajamas. She gave me pajamas for Xmas, at which I looked a bit goofy, because they were the exact same as the pajamas she gave me last year for Xmas, which she obviously couldn't remember, and which I had never worn. I am wearing this pair to reassure her that her gift is indeed appreciated.
When they wear out, I have a reserve.

Tartan, flannel, extra large.
I like baggy jammies.

Normally I would wear jam-pants and a wifebeater to sleep. This detailed information given so that you can mentally picture a middle-aged grumpus lazing about the house on a day off with a pipe in his mouth and a cup of coffee next to him, as I'm sure you really want to do. This is a restrained and almost christmassy image. Very soothing to the eyes.
The badger in his lair, the weasel slinking about.
The very picture of grumpy pulchritude.
A treat, if you are so inclined.
And you should be.
Trust me.

The fragrance of dark Virginia is in the air.
Incense-like, and slightly sweet.
Toast, but subtle.



METABOLE

What may disturb you is that late last night, while listening to opera from a basement, I imagined a small young woman wearing monotone pajamas in an armchair, in darkness, drowsily looking out from her second-story window. An awake dream. She faced toward the west, the street felt like it was on the upper part of the hill, and there was a round side table nearby. Her lamps were off, the room was in shadow where the light from the street did not reach. Her hair is soft, and slightly tousled; and smells very clean.
Again, all of this was imaginary, but I've got a good brain.
It allows me to feel textures in my head.
Dream standing up.

I am not that young woman, nor actually watching her.
And though she doesn't exist, she does.
It's a meta-reality.



It was the quietest part of the evening, the rest of which was loudly spotted with shouting and disturbances caused by drunkards and overly medicated people (and nuts). At the very end of the night, a gentleman named Michael was hollering that if someone would not imbibe they should leave forthwith. Because of a liars dice game, he himself had been much on the receiving end of tequila (why do Chinese men drink tequila? It seems so ill-advised), and wasn't acting quite "normal".

I think the bookseller will agree on two things: a peculiar time was had by all in every place, and the two of us were the sanest people around.
We are restrained and mature individuals.
Surprised at our own stability.


Sometime near to three o'clock I arrived home. Sometime after four the computer was off and the lights were out.

Around seven my apartment mate came groggily stumbling out of her room for breakfast. Within seconds of caffeine hitting the cerebral cortex, she was wide awake and full of beans. There was clanging, and the voices of several stuffed animals arguing with her about caviar could be heard.
There actually is no caviar.

From four-ish till now I have been in these pajamas.
Of which I have an extra pair.
Warm.



I have no idea what the opera was about, I was only one third listening; a scholar, a gentle maiden, and a wise uncle. Something in the never-never time between Han and Ching. Tang or Sung, maybe.




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