It's not every day that I get to report on the actual happy firing of neurons, you know. I mean, I'm talking honest-to-Isis happiness, here, and still you can't take your hands off a slutty little bronze ballerina that probably isn't even French, let alone a Degas. Why I let you drag me to these yard sales at eight o'clock in the foggy stupid morning is beyond me. I don't care how rich the people are in the Montecito mountains, no one is going to set million-dollar artwork out with the tea cozies and the George Foreman grills.
So, yes: equilibrium, Gerald. Balance! It has arrived, which is actually too passive. Better: I've achieved it! I couldn't even tell you how, although I have my suspicions. If I didn't know any better I'd suspect mania. But--having had my share of it--I know mania when I see it, and this is not that. It's a groove. It's a flow. It's timeless and irreverent and purple and bedecked with golden trim. It's the best pillow ever.
Hard to describe I suppose, and when you're reaching for stuffed brocade as a metaphor for your internal mental and spiritual state it's quite possible that something's gone terribly wrong and soon the spiders will start coming out of the walls. But I doubt that. I doubt that very much. I doubt it so much that were it to happen I wouldn't believe it, and that's healthy, isn't it? Look how well I'm doing!
None of which matters much to you, apparently, because you think you're fondling something special when what you've got is a bronze plated knock-off tart in a tutu.
I'm making breakfast. Eggs Benedict! I'll bring it to the loggia. You can join me when you've finished molesting your "artwork."
So, yes: equilibrium, Gerald. Balance! It has arrived, which is actually too passive. Better: I've achieved it! I couldn't even tell you how, although I have my suspicions. If I didn't know any better I'd suspect mania. But--having had my share of it--I know mania when I see it, and this is not that. It's a groove. It's a flow. It's timeless and irreverent and purple and bedecked with golden trim. It's the best pillow ever.
Hard to describe I suppose, and when you're reaching for stuffed brocade as a metaphor for your internal mental and spiritual state it's quite possible that something's gone terribly wrong and soon the spiders will start coming out of the walls. But I doubt that. I doubt that very much. I doubt it so much that were it to happen I wouldn't believe it, and that's healthy, isn't it? Look how well I'm doing!
None of which matters much to you, apparently, because you think you're fondling something special when what you've got is a bronze plated knock-off tart in a tutu.
I'm making breakfast. Eggs Benedict! I'll bring it to the loggia. You can join me when you've finished molesting your "artwork."
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