chugga chugga chugga

I feel a little over-run by my own brain, which is almost chattering melodies rather than churning them out. i dutifully draw ledger lines in the back of The Orchid Thief and conduct in the air for a moment before drawing tiny little tadpole heads. and all the while this feeling that lands me facedown yelling in a pillow, everyone's transient everyone is transient nobody here 100 years All New People. I crouch into music, cello shield, despair swoops hawk-like. people don't stick! I cry into my brain, and my brain reprocesses frantically and delivers red-faced arpeggios. Kneeling before my keyboard, I try mixing midi flute with midi marimba to see if it sounds nice. it does. A sparse midi tango beat gently marries the two. the john updike collection near my bed is crawling with rabbits. Zelda and I made a book today called the Almost Everything book, which she spelled Olmost Evreething. She came over to me in a nightgown with two silk ruffly shoulder pads, also with a weighty and drooping milk moustache and a powdered sugar beard. She had clearly just licked her plate after eating all the pancakes on it, then, with all the powdered sugar taste still starchy, drank the milk. As I sat in the armchair, surrounded by moving boxes, she stood before me and declared "I don't like being alone!" A part of me swiftly reawakened, as if in response to an accusation of absence.