Perfect winter. Just a dusting of fresh new snow, then it melts. The air is clear-crisp and moving. Swirling. World War Two documentary is entertaining the dogs... they prefer submarine movies, that's so weird. (Even the German ones.)
I see it across the room at times. The ambient light has to be just right. Entryway light CAN'T be on. (I don't know how to put it more seriously. Turn off the entryway light. It's oppressing anyways.)
Sun has to be down, of course, it goes through the art-glass and makes waves that shimmy this time of year... Can't see it if I'm sitting on the long couch. You almost have to be half-crouching. Can't see it from the kitchen. Fuck, that's a relief. Can the dogs see it? You have to find, define and refine that angle. If it's a layer effect, that's even WEIRDER. Might as well start the car in the garage. Leave the door down.
"I'm a meth lab, first rehab, take it all off and step inside the running cab... There's a love that knows the way."
Red Hot Chillax Peppers keep my secret spy training from erupting to, like, the surface, man. Whoa-what?
There's a pinhole in my lampshade. (Damn it, I knew I had a point.) Fucking pinhole. Only one. I checked relentlessly.
And there's nothing I can do about it. Concrete, drywall, glues, primer/paint - I can't use any of MY technology on this. I could build a box around it, with 2X4 walls, insulation, gold fixture fountain - the whole bit. That'd just be a mask. Then there's the siding decisions, vapor barriers, OMG what a hassle.
The problem starts as a seemingly insurmountable issue. It's not like the light that 'leaks out' is subject to any extra scrutiny, it mostly just 'gets away with' that offensive behavior.
Some may have the notion that this may be a 'First World Problem.' A subtle crime of entitled luxury. I would calmly disagree. I barely practice capitalism. SO.
It's an exceedingly cheap lampshade. No quality control. Obvious seam, uneven cream coloring, a clipped conical remnant of a richer lampshade's bad dream of what it 'coulda been without the right heritage.' (Think San Diego. Big money, bad karma, suntans, lettuce wraps.)
The lampshade epitomizes poor moral distinction. (No courage, no honor.)
"I feel strongly, Alex." What? I'm not on real Jeopardy? Sometimes you gotta bluff it.
"What is "No courage, no honor, Alex?"
"Correct."
"I'll take "Breakfast Nooks for $400."
"This avocado color-"
"What is the 50's?"
"Correct."
"Artists with Issues for $600."
"This Southwest transplant must have had a trusted hand-mirror and a few calla lilies."
"Who is Georgia O'Keeffe?"
"Correct." (Lots of applause.)
"I'll take Movie News for $200."
"This m-"
"What is 'the true reason JFK was shot?'
"Correct."
"
Back to the point, wind whipping simple spirals in diadora and maple.... (And whether THAT point made the pinhole in the lampshade.)
Scrabble teaches us that stupid people know small words and spell those wrong. I've been very lucky in limiting my exposure to 'small score' Scrabblers, as I expect all of us do. (If you can't make a circle into an octagon, get out of building. Seriously.)
"Raisin' the spirit of peace and love." John Lennon, Mind Games. What a loss. I was listening to FM radio the night he was shot. KISW-Seattle. Maybe KZOK. Study hours, according to my parents. Man was I pissed. I had straight A's. I didn't need any more 'study time.' I needed stimulus. Coffee? Pshaw. Copenhagen tobacco wasn't enough. Sneaking away on my motorcycle to drive up, past Jim Creek Road, to the backside of Lake Reilly, to snuggle a certain young lady from 3-5 am in the heated bathroom facilities, then going home smelling of lip-gloss and pretending I slept all night... that was almost enough. Learning to fire a machine gun? Close. Not enough. Grenades? (Consternation ensues. They are awful fun.)
Archery means true aiming, finding the point, launching, and believing. Why am I consumed by this?
The lines in my hands, of old veins, get sharper and more prominent, the colors duller and smeared. My fingers have known boiling oil, unconscious snowbanks, toxins, nailguns, glue.
And the pinhole remains. It pierces me. Even when I don't see it. More a feeling, a knowing. A perfect poison point of acupuncture. My head's turned away... however, it's two feet northwest. Creeping, processing, pretending. Making up little therapist games... Color-co-ordinating. Judging.
Gawd it drives me crazy. Just a little pinhole. Still there. The only thing that shatters the normalcy. A bad actor.
Stupor finds wisdom. Wisdom finds honor. The path always changes.
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