The Land of Nod October 2, 2011Posted by The Typist in cryptical envelopment, New Orleans, The Narrative, Toulouse Street.
Tags: Sunday Morning
Batteries run down until all you can manage is the rumbling whump of a single revolution of the engine, the effort dimming the console lights. Drifting in and out like a cheap radio, this must be what the heroin nod is like but turned inside out, not the chemical relaxation but an anxious exhaustion in which keeping your head up and your mind focused seems like some Marvel comic feat, able to leap tall piles of laundry and books with a single bound; a devolution from the pinnacle of homo erectus, unable to manage the triumph of proper posture, completely mystified by the intricate tools for cleaning the apartment, subsisting on a diet of things easily plucked from the cabinet and fridge.
Tea and cigarettes. Books and blankets. I hear it’s a gorgeous day out, and the game is on. Let me know how it turns out.