On my arms, on paper, on the previous night’s math, on a prim heap of God filings. I’d been trying to calculate the curious sudden slump in the number of Korean boy bands. Coffee at 2a.m. Uttered the Dinosaur Slur, a slur against dinosaurs spoken, ironically, with a dinosaur’s slur, and meant to denote grave unhappiness. I hoard bright sharp metal shavings I use math to meticulously chip off of God’s body. I suspect I’m being tested, as any such mathematician would be. By some TV crew. I’m on ‘Hoarders.’ But also not. The challenge is to continue hoarding without knowing if I’m doing it for the sake of a few million bloated, bored viewers. I’d be devastated if I did. So this afternoon I was out in the garden applying a wet-dry Vortex shaver to the tree stumps. How I love the feeling of a smooth, pulpy shave. The sound. The rich wetness. Like damp feet walking across a new carpet. All the time I felt observed. But it wasn’t the usual TV crews watching me, it was a fairy.
I’m in love again. It’s that familiar tough time of the year again. This morning, I took that incendiary Julia Child morning bark so very personally, as I do every morning. The pigeon shit Kool-Aid look-alike on the bedside table swilled with a drunken flavor. I tried following the whispering communications between different oatmeal algorithms. I was vaguely aware of surfaces rumbling with unplowed acne. The world is fertile and rich with possibilities, but where to begin? The suicidal man asleep on such a night travels in a pro-life airplane. Morning is the resentful meatloaf. I’m usually unaware I’ve been catcalling some time during the night at the model army tanks and surfboards on my ceiling, or grinding new shoes in the area between sleep and waking. I have to go to work soon and won’t have access to my garage. There’s no cohesion, only possibility. Also, the machines in the laundromat I’ll later be visiting respond only to bagpipes. I don’t know who it is I’m in love with. Nor who the fairy I met in the garden was.