Been feeling a bit like a frog in the bog lately.
Crotchety, sticky and green, and nursing a sneaking suspicion that the world is not bog shaped, entirely.
Possibilities are fast closing in, and the most alarming symptom is that my dreams have become calcified and porous, leaked through with the hollow stifling breathlessness of the gaps between realness and fantasy. Truly, shit curdling scary.
Last night my wings became tangled with imli chutney – in as far as something winglike can become entangled with something chutneylike. My mother captured the incontinent spill of my memory in an omelette and served it up to a passing fakir [how colonial is my half-core perception-processor, really?] who later forgot how to invoke a spell on banishing laziness.
And I could, from where I was hanging, see the fraying holes in my head.
It doesn’t help that my gut feels like a sewer pipe that has seen its best days, and would like nothing better than a small pension and a dry spell, but is rapidly losing its grip on reality and that bond which holds sewer pipe alloy molecules together as it burdens under the heaving prolificity of the big bum of fate.
I’ve also had enough of humorists who sound like Woody Allen. It's enormously depressing when people find it in their sick heads to raise laughs about deeply moving things that end with ‘ism’ or ‘isation’. God made American sitcoms for laughing at. The rest is all serious and businesslike – the stuff that Sunny Deol makes films about.
Also, I cannot pee through seven mattresses, which Terry Pratchett says is incontestable proof of royal lineage [and femininity.]