One. The Film
They drove on across the muted French countryside taking narrow roads through the pasture land and wood, striving to construct themselves village after village in the bubble-like medium through which they convey these diminuendo dreamscapes of airtight imagery.
Route diverted suddenly by a doubtful junction sign, they veered slightly east and found themselves in Luxembourg, and there they would pass the night.
"It's a place of neutrality" was Ploy's first thought. "I like it! They speak a funny language. Don't you think so, Bala? We can use the time to talk, too. There are still many unresolved riddles over form."
"And not style?" he asked.
"– What do you mean?"
"I mean I'm starting to grow tired of authentic local color. I'm inclined to believe that our reader(s) are too. It's as if we're granting her special privilege to eavesdrop on all our émigré chitchat – Tokyo, Goa, Bangkok, Rome... So capriciously flaunting all these jet-set destinations may very well be maddening to our gentle reader. She may also think we're faking it."
"– You got a better idea?"
"I just don't like putting anybody off, Ploy, especially not you. Therefore my avoiding certain delicate questions?..."
"– Like what?" she said. She stared right at him.
Bala took pause. She returned her gazed to the open road.
"Listen," he said. "I have proven to you already and everyone else for that matter that I am not employed by the CIA. However, neither am I cousins of Cambodian royalty with baffling sources of tax free income accruing per diem in dodgy number-coded Swiss accounts."
"– So the book should have the aim of making money."
"Well put! But it's far from the main thing."
"– What's the main thing?"
"I'm a dreamer, Ploy. I admit it fair and square."
"– So?"
"You're my dream."
Later that night between the starched cotton sheets, she snuggled up close and whispered in his ear. "You're not the dreamer. I am. You are beautiful but stupid, cute and ambivalent – firmness in response to these raised grains of skin."
The following morning on the balcony with tea to ingratiate their lives with aesthetic prompting. The view of the woods and the low hanging clouds.
She scratched her knee. "What funny clouds this morning..."
"You're worried about your brother again, aren't you?" he said. "Why don't you just write him?"
...why don't you just answer? I have scribed on Vesuvian shards for you. How badly I wanted to forward those parcels, but who ever knows your latest poste restante? What torture it was not to break those seals! Especially the pretty ones marked Tropea.
*
Ritual peace pipes offered on the beach that night. Yes, he would: thank you. And bury the hatchet of his love spite for Ploy. But what on Earth had they packed it with! Like a tuber to his pranized lung tissue deep at the interface of bloodstream and headlong splash.
Staying up alone in the house now, waiting. Mosquito bitten ankles.
Darling Ploy,
There are still some contingent possibilities on the island. I'll wait a bit longer for something to ripen. All goes well though nothing really happens. I guess this just wasn't meant to be a happening. Down to nothing. Resplendent.
Bala
PS. anything new on Kavi?
*
Dearest Bala,
I'm taking the time to think things over here, trying to come to terms with what I am in relation to this preordained European idée-fixe. Like cows and horses, we get along famously, but never any intercourse, sexual or otherwise. It's nice to speak French again. The nature is lovely here. Pasture lands extending over wooded hills of green.
kiss,
Ploy
*
Dearest Bala,
Swallows are flying in and out the shed. They attack the young cat if he comes too close. Tanti has gone with a neighbor friend to Paris. A Dutch guy in the village is helping me install a computer. I should be online soon. I'm going to clean the windows now.
Ploy
*
Dearest Bala,
You asked about Kavi. I will tell you this. Synthia was living in an apartment in Paris that summer when I asked you to come and meet me there. She was living in Avenue Simon Bolivar, the same street as Kavi, but the opposite side...
It's too late to write now. The weekend was a whirlwind of activity. I'm fatigued... Sometimes I do nothing but read. I hear these strange archaic words. Des profondeurs, je crie vers toi, seigneur. They said that a priest used to live in this house...
Next morning. I'm looking at my potted flowers out my study window. I'll put my red coat on to dig in the garden – some samples for your visual text.
Ploy
Two. The Script
Standing by the sink in the morning kitchen, Bala spoke calmly to his feminine side. "Some of the townspeople have noticed our return, Ploy. They're starting to ask questions about the popularity of your healing sessions and about such things as work permits and licensing. I think the local medicos are feeling a bit up staged, if not undermined by your vatic approach. It's a little like going against the Church here, I'm afraid."
"– Ha! You mean the drug pushers! Listen to me Bala. Every legitimate healing-arts practitioner, whatever her therapeutic persuasion may be, is bound by the precepts of her higher calling to apply her knowledge whenever and wherever she is called on – basta!"
"Well perhaps it's the money they're concerned about."
"– Money? What money! I haven't received a single Euro. They're flooding us with bags of vegetables and fruit. Just look at this stuff – it's all going to rot. And oh, by the way. I forgot to tell you. Madame Noveli has given us Tanti!... – What money, Bala? – I don't accept money!"
"Precisely."
*
The following evening in the local café, Ploy asked openly, "Anybody here heard the new therapist joke?"
"– Go ahead and tell us."
"Today was a great day, everybody cried."
She was clearly in a jolly light-hearted mood. "Hey Bala," she said. "Waddya say we fatten up your chapbook?"
"Give me a sign post."
"A 'sign post'?" she said in a posh Indian accent. "Where did you learn to speak your English, my God! ... All right then. Do one thing. Sketch a short piece titled Ploy in Savage Candour. But you have to pass her through at least one phase of motherhood, otherwise whoredom. One or the other, choose and begin."
Later in the privacy of their hidden veranda, Ploy got lonely while Bala kept writing. She noiselessly hid herself behind the tall curtain and began to chant like a choral Apsara: "Oh! Bala!...," she intoned. "The implementation of the embargo has crumbled... The mediated cease-fire has even collapsed... Everything is turning towards its own tragic detriment... – Oh! Bala!... – The situation is tense!"
* * *
It is perfectly true that Bala and Ploy do sometimes take themselves all-too-serious, strolling through the town like a diplomatic couple, or a super-cool team of cease-fire negotiators impervious to the sniper fire provided by the various warring factions. Ploy calmly gazing in her Florentine hand-mirror while Bala casts his eyes on the whole bazaar as a grand Palestine of the mind.
Three. The Montage
Bala and Ploy across the changing face of Europe, constantly on the move via automobile, ferry, train and plane, with their ultra-light cell phone and laptop ensemble granting round-the-clock access to a host of morphogenic data mines. Now a big thick bed in an untidy room reminiscent of cozy occupied Germany. She holds his face in her loving hands and gazes deeply in his sapphire eyes. The tender curves of her waist, a gurgle, her naked body as it moves toward the bathroom.
Rising early to an old espresso-maker that she places on a flame while somebody showers. A heavy dark bread that hadn't been cut. In the fridge, some milk and a block of butter indecorously gouged with fork-marks. The poignancy of this cinematic fresco.
*
Just before Christmas they flew to Goa.
They arrived to the party by the cover of night and slowly began to connect the dots. The key to this veritable folie a deux lies mainly in determining exactly who these agents are and what they're really on about. We have still not established any clear-cut motive, nor crime for that matter. For violence has itself so carefully been deleted, disregarded, unevoked, made irrelevant, and so on, that it's now by the sheer girth of fear itself – with its stammers and stumbles of self-instilled re-jectory that every time returns us to where we remain.
Nothing can be ruled out: their first encounter with Synthia for starters, who intently set her eyes on Bala and his hot Eurasian blush. It was apparent this woman had arrived without escort and wore a certain brand of Eau de Cologne that reeked of the essence of not having washed between her legs in a fortnight.
She sauntered in close to where the couple then sat, near the ferns at the edge of the torch lit patio. Ploy then noticed Bala's dilating nostrils as an unrestrained triad of glances began, and continued throughout the humid night's affair – but at cautious distances and roving prospects.
"The charm of a scorpion," Ploy broke the deadlock, "– what's your position?"
"High-risk beauty," was all he could say.
"I think we agree."
"But if she truly is born of the cardinal wet sign, she's likely more interested in you, not me."
"No way!" said Ploy in flat disagreement. "She's entirely too dazzled."
"Dazzled?, by what?"
"– by what we represent. Can't you see that she's reeling in mentation? She's astonished by the fact of our androgynous unity. She never really expected this (be discreet Bala!) and it's driving her bonkers – she's flailing on the edge of psychic vertigo."
Some moments later Bala made the comment, "A bit of a prowling panther as well; don't you think?"
"...oh?..." remarked Ploy, glancing away with petulance, "You haven't pictured her between us, then?"
"No way! said Bala. "I don't get off on that witchy posturing.
"– it's only a veil. She's a frightened animal, frightened and alone."
"A misguided seeker?"
"– That's it (she snaps her fingers). She's a Pune freak! Someone must have told her."
"Told her what?"
"She's probably interested in my therapy sessions."
"– Tch! ... Everyone's interested in your therapy sessions!"
* * *
"It's time to loosen up the fabric, Bala: it is time to face the task that lies before us. This vaguely perceptible ménage à trois is simply unsustainable in terms of plot. It's got to be exposed as your own invention, dear. Come on, – snap out of it! Therapy is nothing but a cheap metaphor. Kavi's gone in search of the holy Therapeutae – in a filmic flight of Alexandrian fantasy. This also explains why at Capo Vaticano the attendance to the needs of food and drink were relegated solely to the hours of darkness. – I'm worried Bala."
"About me?"
"– No, Kavi. He has fallen despondent on the shores of Lake Mareotic. He simply finds atavism morphically irresistible; but I'm sure that the Coptics will revive him for the nonce, which in turn ought to see him through a few more episodes. He really doesn't mind if he has to come back."
"And what about you?"
"– I stick to tradition. I'm a hunter, Bala. Are you taking this down? I shall now distinguish between high and low hunters. Low hunters typically stalk their prey to that ultimate life-depriving end. By contrast, high hunters seek their game with reverence and care, as they lure them back into their secreted camps of vital nourishment. Once well infused with food and design they are reintroduced into the savage environment. In fact, this is what Calabria was all about, a tirthankaric acid trip to the liminal spheres. It is only regarding the concept of time that high hunter culture turns taunting and murderous. Time is our ultimate antagonist, our foe, which we maenadically stalk, tear limb from limb and gulp with gusto. I wave the wand, Bala, we depart on cue."
Four. The Manor House
Back in Europe after wintering in Goa, Synthia began to expose the inner workings of her own vast image-editing console. The front well ordered, trim and sleek, the back a tangle of jacks and wires all running every which way. Her clean silhouette as projected by the sun near the sink through and the morning kitchen window. Now a sultry voice disjoined from its shadow, wafting by the fridge through the cigarette smoke.
"Don't take it all so serious," Bala told her, "it's only life."
That was at her sister's little house in Bingen, on the hillside veranda overlooking the Rhine. She poured white wine and offered him cheeses and went on and on about her Jewish mother and her daughter Binah who had no father.
"In the Orient," said Bala, slightly soused, "there are always people eager to commission ascetics. I lived for years there in implausible grottoes and solitary makeshift huts of abandon while subsisting on the proceeds of alms bowl begging. In Europe people offer you wine and cheese."
The following day they all drove to Baden-Baden to stay in Synthia's manor house.
One afternoon when the birds were singing, Ploy saw a big jar of desiccated herbs on the kitchen table labeled Thymus vulgaris. She unscrewed the lid and sniffed. Synthia spoke with slight discretion, occasionally checking the simmering pot.
"The only real relationship I've ever maintained is the one between me and my emotional problems, Ploy. I have dedicated years to their preservation. I cuddle and protect them with more affection than I show my own daughter. I will stop at nothing to retain them, Ploy. I cling to them frantically in all their guises – like a Marseille bag lady clutching filthy rags. But I'm scared they will one-day try to leave, Ploy. I could never allow that. It would absolutely devastate me. Without them I'm nothing."
"You're deluded," said Ploy, "It's time to face the facts."
"I know," said Synthia, "but it's just too damned humiliating. To lose my problems would tear me apart. I could never sit idly by and watch them leave. It is simply my nature to wage a nasty fight."
"You have got to regain your wits," said Ploy. "Look at yourself! You've squandered your youth on status and money. You've sold your soul to the standards of professional protocol. Corporate jurist, head of your own litigation firm, personal logo—name card, dot com. Come on!"
"Oh why do I do this?" Synthia sighed. She supported her head in her well-shaped hands.
Ploy went on. "Listen: all of your maneuvering is rooted in the fear of unconsciously twigging your essential persona non entity. And so you lay on thick all the haute coiffure and stylish façades, just to put off facing this insufferable truth."
"Oh, my god. I have clothed myself in elegant brochures!"
*
In fact, Ploy made a study of this industrial trend and designed the mock pamphlet Apertures of Love, which Bala found fetching and brilliantly presented, especially when she turned it into a personal web page.
"These are essential experiences of a starkly denuding nature," she wrote, "It's like being invited to a fancy restaurant where they don't write the prices on the menu. Nor is this any mere style exercise. Our chief concern is morphologic faith, not to mention guts."
A few weeks later while browsing such a menu, Bala got his breakthrough premonition in connection with the placement of the two chief personae upon which the author had fallen so reliant. This mainly concerned the ad libitum revamping of the cherry-picked temperaments vis-à-vis their various morphemic blends as disclosed for example in the Urdu rendering of Kavi as Kabir; and when she read his note she at once thought Kabala!
Five. The Plastic Caryatid
Bala looked up from his battery-powered notebook. He noticed that the road had suddenly narrowed. Headlamps making known indistinct forms through the vaporous midnight air.
Ploy remained attentive to the difficult road while hampered in vision by the dirty windshield.
"Where are we now?" Bala asked the driver.
"A village about eight kilometers east of Sommiéres," she said. "Or at least I hope we are..." She continued steering; intently examining the outlines of houses as they vaguely appeared from the moonless night.
"Are you searching for something in particular?" he asked.
"Frederic Chopin with his thumb sticking out."
"Eh?..."
"A sign post, Bala. There's supposed to be a junction coming up and I don't want to miss it."
"I hope we're not lost!"
"The navigator says! – Catsu Bala! Why aren't you looking at the bloody map!"
"The map is in French." He folded his arms.
"We're in France, Bala! What do you expect!"
She removed her eyes from the road and stared at him. "Listen Bala. I've been driving all night. Could you kindly switch off your little computer and help me find the road sign – please?"
Sensuous palettes of blurred events as arranged on a cinematic background. Tacking the whims of conspiratorial force, she had stuck to the chart and only stopped once having crossed the Rhine at Mulhouse – fixed in approach 'til the pre-dawn dullness and the sound of tires over ancient stone bridge – this grubby road of residue motion raking like the bondsman of their shared discomfiture.
"I'm tired of you picking my psyche, Bala. You have pillaged the adhesion of our love long enough. What further benedictions are you offering posterity? What new title have you chosen now, Notes for the architects of a future liminology? – switch it off Bala, I'm tense and I'm tired. I forbid you to type another word!"
The berry of the grey elder
mingles with the linen (Empedoclese)
*
Once arrived to the sleeping town, they made their way to Hôtel de l'Orange, a modest establishment nestled, almost hidden by the old stone church and the incline of the hill.
Stepping from the warmth of the automobile, they were instantly assailed by the chilly night air, though lavishly imbued with the scents of wild thyme. They walked the gravel path on weary bones and lugged their bags right up to the door that, as to be expected, was firmly closed. They pressed the bell and the peephole opened. The eyes of a sleepy old woman peered out.
She threw back the bolt and bade them enter – "Entrer! Entrer!" and led them straight up to a large, nearly self-contained chambre with spacious bath and high airy ceiling. The walls were papered with a pale green floral print.
" – Ah, bon!" said Ploy. Her bag hit floor. "C'est tres provençal et cozy," and she bargained for a moment and closed deal.
The bed was enormous, thick and soft, with copious quilts and linens the smell of old fashioned washing soap. Ploy was so fagged she could hardly stand, so Bala filled the bath and placed her inside for a good hot steep... Twenty minutes later, she crawled to the bed leaving Bala alone in the foreign silence...
Sometime later he saved the file and switched off the lamp before slipping into bed, taking utmost care not to mar the slumber of his cranky driver. She blindly snuggled up to him as soon as he was in...
Ploy rose first the following morning. A beam of light through a chink in the shutter. Feelings of elation squatting naked on the floor as she rummaged through her bag for a tube of herbal toothpaste. Holding her shivering arms to her breasts, she stepped towards the bathroom: then stopped. There was tapping at the door. "Madame...Madame..." came a whispering voice.
Ploy pulled the latch and peeked through the door. "Never mind the check-out time," the old woman wispered. "Would you like hot croissants and coffee now?"
Ploy glanced to Bala who was fast asleep. "Give us one coffee and two croissants."
1. Diary and coffee, sitting back in bed. Pillow over thighs for the sexy laptop. Bala to the depths in fainted yearn for a silken sac... My trained reposures on the full extent at which novel applications may alter the course of the native's malady. The honing self-conception of a metaphoric therapist...
2. Firmly decided on technic mode, it tends to the corporal structure first, then deeper drilling to resolve pending nerve knots, fortified congeries: the microbe of the ego. Drilling with the diamond bit of the mind...
3. An alternate canvassing: Abetting the charge to visualize afflictions, impairments, complaints, as widely formed among the European populates. It was a privilege to work with multiple sclerosis patients in Essenheim. They taught me to think in terms of trying to imagine what the "greater force" was trying to express through its particular unhealthy manifestation (G. Groddeck). Here line-in charge to acknowledge ones inheritance or "touch my forelock," were Bala made to say, to the further shores of innate situatedness...
4. The unfused sacrum as conversion tool. This nearly unbearable gushing fount with duplicitous feelings of unsettling euphoria. It's here right now, and shall even prove enhancing. There is confidence and faith; outlook is bright...
5. Prudence in endowing this with much ambiguity. We are therefore not resetting bones. But would had to have said a lots of stupid things. Take "quincunx" for example. What a sexy spelled word. A four-cornered box with a fifth thing in the middle. We have entered the mandala and refuse to come out, have applicated specifying seals and signs to each and every facet of the flawless gem. Take the guru for example – the Übermensch – as positioned equidistant to element Ether and my own Virgo moon-sign Mother-as-mystery, as the basis of Kavi's vulture-like vantage and the cloud-size shadow of his soaring wingspan circling high above the cordoned-off crime scene/court cum gallows, as a noose slowly tightens round someone's neck in the shade of a sacred tree.
6. So there, O reader – these maladies, depravities and torturous thoughts. (a) Are these case studies ours or rather your own? (b) Who precisely is abetting whom? – But wait. Let us suspend all normative judgment until the facts in their entirety spring among the roses.
7. 'Thorny issues,' did I hear you say? Or thorns for the removal of thorns? One needs to be precise.
8. So let us gather round us then a choice array of surgical implements. Though never to confuse or fail to accept that the object of a treatment is the patient, not the doctor. And as an eminent disciple of Freud once quipped: "How am I, a surgeon, to conduct an operation on a patient intent on kissing my hand?" Or else imagine a writer who is writing for a reader who vicariously dreams she's the writer she reads. Rigidity, fluidity, congenital narcissism.
9. I'm proud of my father. In his Early Manuals – which only I have seen – the following is stated: "Principles are natural laws, primary forms. They are enigmatic instruments of absorption, infiltration and extension beyond to the very fore-structures of a deeply centreless far-flung sphere. They are vital, penetrative theorems of broad application... Such principles are likened to flawless jewels – reflective instruments with highly particularized and typogenic promise. This all becomes apparent through self-reflexive the plumbing of the baton-twirling carnivalization process in accordance with the practice of 'sumptuous asceticism' (René Laubiès) – a principled quasi-archaeological discipline that seeks to appeal to the formative influence of a Cloudist narratology appropriate in isolating seminal procedures as pertain to otherwise lame schemata."
* * *
I am taking control of the book, I feel, i.e. I feel I must. From now on, B- can submit what he likes. But I'm installing myself as editor-in-chief. Henceforward all judgments on subject and format will be left to my own autocratic discretion. Bala quite frankly requires an editor. You've got to see his grammar! To boost this deficiency I have decided to assign him unequivocal tasks with cut off dates, to see if it helps his coherency problem. What is more, I am making Kavi a contributing editor. Though lost to our eyes, I am certain he is out there.
* * *
Our dear friend Synthia from Baden-Baden was the one who actually put us on to this quaint little Hôtel de l'Orange... I am just now made to remember her remarks the night before we left her sister's house in Bingen overlooking the Rhine. Alone, just the two of us sitting upstairs on the rug in the quiet of her alcove bedroom, I found her affecting an uncharacteristically formal disposition with me, as she spoke about (a) "that certain element of intrigue that draws us near to the private letters and diaries of people whom we don't even know" and (b) "that bleak desideratum of letters and journals with marginal notes incidentally discovered in upstairs drawers in rooms wherein we find ourselves lodged en route to destinations of no one's concern." She then spoke her mind on (c) "the cagey impertinence of certain people" and (d) "the thrill they derive from finding out stuff that's absolutely none of their business!"
What was the cunning jurist driving at?
But then she fell quiet, even hesitant and shy because she needed to disclose something deeply personal. Pressing her attractive face between her hands she said, "Why am I always so lonesome, Ploy? – Tell me. Why have so few men really known me? – If any at all."
"What have you staked on redeeming them?" I asked.
She took offence. "Excuse me?" she said, and her face flushed red on the spot. "I'm sorry, but that's simply not a living myth for me." She lit her first cigarette. "Honestly Ploy. I can't understand how you let yourself be shunted and loomed by all these far-fetched make-believes." She opened the window to the cold night air.
"Because love is a radical need," I declared. "Love is a vital force and a cure."
There was a long uncomfortable pause after that. Finally, I put it to her. "Maybe men just aren't your thing?"
Whatever got started the night before was hardly resolved the following morning. Lucky it was Saturday so Binah slept in and sparred us the noisy aggravations of the child...
We met downstairs for early breakfast. The mood was extremely strained and Bala felt it so he played around making toast by the sink.
I began to see the consequence of Synthia's jealousy, fear and resentment – but little time for that! We had set our departure for 8 o'clock sharp and five before the hour Bala pointed to his watch and said, "Hey, we're outta here!"
I remember Synthia with tears in her eyes, standing at the front of the house in the cold as I steered down the gentle grade of the hill. I remember her last thrown kiss and hand wave: waves in return and the purr of the engine.
From that time on I began to fear that she would start to regress into infantile stubbornness and self-inflicted bitchyness – especially because her daughter would absorb that... Or otherwise consume herself in plain old hatred, that most underrated pandemic disorder. Sickened in hatred, suffered in hatred, is it really any wonder this cardio-vascular catastrophe facing the bulimic consumptive nations?
Bala I love you, I drink your kisses. I plunge myself into your deepest being. My heart is a swollen river of nectar gathered from the warmth of my flowing tears – a bath for you my idiot god – my incestuous son! This perfect ass is yours. Oh dear thing ravage me please send me to death...
* * *
There is something at times unbearably daft in the character of Bala. It's true. Others have witnessed it as well. Synthia for starters.
"Why do you put up with that lazy lout?" she asked one day. "Okay he's got a body if you like the slender/supple type. But he's also an austerity freak, and a regression addict!"
"Yes," I replied, "there is truth in what you say."
But what people don't perceive is that Bala is guided by an ethereal race of sky walking sylphs who have bonded themselves to my tea-cozy man. I am not at all jealous. 'Why?' It's like this. To dwell within Bala's auric parameter is to indirectly harvest ennobling qualities. 'And what is my role?' I'm the earth-born attendant who prepares his tilt to receive the cosmo-aesthetic force. 'And how is this accomplished?' Through sublime consecrations of yogafied embrace – that's the main thing. But I am also pulled to his radiant field through refinements in awareness of my imprints upon him. Though I never get the same transference as the boy. 'Sounds cryptic?'
Interruptions. Time for a bathroom window view of earth-tile roofs as far as you can see – that patina of antiquity along the rock-and-mortar wall of well-scribed arcs and potted oleanders, plastic caryatids, Leda and the Flamingo the ruinous castle on top of the hill; a stone fount birdbath down in the garden.
Back in bed now with Synthia's critique, and which certainly has its Marxian truth. "Tell me" she insisted in a gently grilling tone. "What is the division of labor in your relationship?"
"He writes and I drive."
"How quaint!" she mocked. "The Asiatic mode of production right here in Europe! What are you then, his girlfriend or his coolie?"
I mean it's not that I mind always sitting behind the wheel, but how else ever would get anywhere? And it's really more a question of transcribing than 'arriving.' Yes, transcription and edition. You see, Bala is something like an imaginary TV screen looming overhead like an oblique nimbus – a post-modern state-of-the-art, fully adjustable translucent job, unhampered by screwing or body surfing. And the screen's always there for the viewing.
Imagine if everybody walked around like that so everyone could always see what everyone was thinking. What full-time garbage our minds would be producing! Which is just our dilemma: how do we edit, refine and transmute?
This begs other questions, as well. For example, why does the mind even cause this stuff? Why can't we just turn the damn thing off? I mean, what on earth was the meaning of the woman at the door with a continental breakfast on a tray, and why was I moved to shield my titties? – that she might not blush?
Now sipping this imagined coffee in bed while personal compact screen warms up – just feeling the contentment as I sit back in bed, this beautiful boy asleep at my side... the exquisite thrill of finally arriving after so many technical fits and starts – just waiting for whatever to unfold...... – how novel the feel of this against my thighs, this ultra-thin palette of cognitive translucence with auto-scribe press and tantric hook-up... – hum, do I dare? Am I really that bushy? Let's check on Bala then [...delta...delta...], he's on to it now as playful nudge gains faint monition and blindly sighs the delta blues with accompanying juice harp live at Hôtel de l'Orange...
A tumult in the birdbath.
Lancing pecks and a flurry of wing flap.
