Inside is Outside's Outside
"People
shouldn't make fun of me, even if they think they're being wittily cruel. They
think I make mistakes when I leave a building because I always go in the wrong
direction. They don't know what they're taking about.
"You're
walking down the street, and you go into a shop. Let's say the shop is on your
right, and so, to go in, you have to turn right. Now you're on the inside of
the building, and space has been pulled inside out. It's like you've passed
through a mirror, and you're inside it. But what people don't get is that when
you were outside, you were inside, albeit in the inside of the outside. When
you turn right, and passed into the inside, through the mirror, you have to
still be inside of the outside. How could the nature of space change just
because you're in a different context? So, naturally, when I leave the inside
of the inside to go to the inside of the outside, I go in the right direction,
which, to others is the wrong direction.
"But
they don't get it. I always go the right way. Pull it out yourself."
*
Here comes the boy, the boy
wonder, the one all the girls are talking about, the next big thing, the
trainee trained by the finest baseball minds of our generation, said to be shy,
said to be diffident, said to be innocent, said to be arrogant; he's clean as a
whistle, straight from the showers, in a fresh uniform tailored to his form,
blindingly white fabric here on this sunny spring morning, and his leather
shoes are shining too, his cap on properly, not like some people we know; he's
choosing his bat from out the bat-bin, careful his is to get the right weight
and line, doesn't have to spend any time rolling it on the ground, for such is
his pure eye to see what is true and what is false; he's walking to the plate,
not a sense of swagger, not even of determination, rather doing what he was
meant to do in this his life, not for nothing is he called The Future; he's
standing at the plate, looking co-operatively at the pitcher, as if to say
we're all in this together, we're her for a show, give me what you've got
today.
Strike. Strike. Strike.
*
In a dark and confused mood,
the statesman paces his Holiday Inn room. It's morning, and bright, which just
goes to show how little God cares about us individually.
His servants, called
secretaries, come into the room.
The statesman says: "I
can't start my speech without a land recognition statement, and I don't know
who to recognize."
The servants pull out their
phones and start looking for Glaswegian history articles. The statesman paces
continuously.
The first servant says:
"It says here the Celts and the Picts had a presence."
The second servant says:
"Wait, here's something. Caledonia. Fought against the Romans."
The statesman says: "Good,
that's good. Anti-imperialists and all that. Caledonia. I've heard the word
somewhere before."
"It's a well-known word,
sir."
"So, the Caledonians. Who
are their councillors?"
"They're entirely gone,
sir. We're talking two thousand years ago."
"Two thousand! Goodness!
It's good to know none will criticize me. So we're on
the traditional land of the Caledonians, are we? Thank you very much for this
information."
"No problem, sir."
"And no-one will laugh at
me?"
"Certainly not!"
"It makes perfect sense
when seen from the proper angle."
"No-one's going to mock
you."
"Never."
"Never!"
"Perish the thought."
*
Well I was hangin'
in the 'brary
On a
sunny day in June
When
along came a girlie
As
pretty as the moon.
"What
is that you're readin'
Looks a
pretty thickly book."
She sat
down right beside me
With a
sweet angelic look.
"Have
you ever read Jane Austen?"
The
vixen said to me
I
replied: "Just Pride and Prejudice,
but
everything else, you see."
'Cause I read everything, girl,
All that
you could bring, girl,
The
shelves and all the stacks, girl,
None
follow in my tracks, girl,
I've
read everything.
I've
read Euripides, Sophocles, Thucydides, Homer,
Aristophanes,
Cicero, Ovid, Lucretius,
Mahabharata,
Ramayana, Harivamsha, all the parvas,
Brothers
Grimm, the thousand-one, the Mabinogi, Malory,
Ghost
stories, folk stories, terror stories, true stories,
All with
ease
[chorus]
I've
read Ariosto's Furioso, Machiavelli and Cellini
Cervantes,
Sir Thomas More, Geoffrey Chaucer, Edmund Spenser,
William
Shakespeare, Beaumont-Fletcher, Burton, Bacon, Bunyan,
Aubrey,
Dryden, Walton, Marston, Campion, Johnson,
Pope,
Burke, Smart, Ford, Hobbes, Kyd, Matthew, Mark, Luke, John,
I'm not
done
[chorus]
And
there's Milton, Laurence Sterne, Tobias Smollett, Richardson,
Rabelais,
Montagne, Voltaire, Moliere and Jean Racine,
Goethe,
Balzac, Stendhal, Hugo, Baudelaire,
Maupassant
and Zola, Paul Verlaine and Rimbaud,
Ibsen,
Strindberg, Robert Burns and Wordsworth,
From my
birth
[chorus]
I've
read everything.
"I
get the point, you've read everything, except for your fate."
*
On the
second-last day of your vacation, you are suddenly struck by the conclusion
that you haven't committed at all enough violence yet/ You've broken no lamps,
screamed at zero hotel staff, and since you haven't bought a newspaper in
eleven days you haven't read of any gross stupidity/ You look out the window at
the sea of a cloudless day, at the dots of children splashing in water, the
ovals of a hundred umbrellas/ and nothing is making you upset and you're hungry
to get upset, upset about anything at all, but it's all so beautiful/ you'd
have to have a better imagination to invent something out of whole cloth, and
you simply don't have the imagination to conjure it up/ You open the sliding
door. Maybe someone's playing loud music. No-one's playing any music at all,
just the surf and the gulls and tree-wind/ Your spouse comes in from the
washroom after a long hot bath, comes to you, puts arms around you, then lets
you go (you're still looking out the window)/ Then your spouse says: "Gee,
this is our second-last day here," and you turn and scream: "Jesus fucking
Christ, did you have to remind me?"
*
"She
asked me to sing a song she wrote."
"Did
she write it all by herself? Words and music?"
"Said she so. I told her I sang my own only."
"What
was her reaction to your dismissal?"
"Why,
she said I could look it over first. Then decide."
"All
written down, on staves and so on?"
"Yes,
all in ink; carefully spotted, carefully barred."
"I
guess by that you gave it the once-over."
"I
did. In my head I read it. It was odd altogether."
"You
know enough about real music to judge that?"
"I
know my notes, I can modulate key signatures."
"Did
you reconsider singing the girl's song?"
"Considered,
considered, considered, and considered."
"I
guess you came to some sort of a decision, then."
"The
song was beyond my scope. What could I say?"
"I'd
like to know what you said to the poor girl."
"I
told her it was all beyond my capabilities, her song."
"Was
she crushed and destroyed and decimated etcetera?"
"On
the contrary, she beamed like the happiest lass alive."
"...."
"She
wanted to write a song beyond the earth and stars."
"...."
"Her
song was of God, and hence almost incomprehensible."
"...."
"...."
*
I
imagine, with my eyes lifted upwards and to the left, I am back in a school
that has elaborate grounds and many buildings, all looking barely worn and with
promises of satisfaction within, and by elaborate grounds I am speaking of
rolling lawns with youngsters lounging, having conversations, and reading books,
(and the girls look pretty), and it is the first day of my second year, the
first year being the first year an individual is actually allowed to choose his
or her own curriculum, and I have last year's schedule to consult but I go on
again off again thinking last year's schedule must or must not have the same
pattern as last year's schedule, frankly I don't know as I consult last year's
schedule which may or may not be the same as this year's schedule, for I don't
recall filling in any forms in the last couple months, so I'm not entirely sure
where I should be going, or even if I have what you might call a destination,
so, taking all for all, I decide to go to the room in which my first class last
year was held, and let things work themselves out.
*
Oh Raymond
Chandler.
What's
the trick?
Did you
use colour?
Inks in
other colours?
Did a
great map
With
action lines
And
spots of climax
Like a
boy's sheet
Let you
progress
Around
the action
Without
ever once
Landing
upon the secret?
Was L.A.
pretty 2 U?
A lovely
town indeed
Like a
whole world
With
many countries
And
borders crossed
Only by
the brave
Or the
ones soon 2 B
Victimized,
murdered,
By
murderers already met
Or about
to be met.
The
loveliest city
I've
ever seen, aye,
But with
a darkness
I never
noticed there,
And in
response you'd
Say:
"The tourists
Are
safe, of course;
They're
not worth
A
bullet; no past,
No
history, superficial,
Grudgeless,
innocent,
At least
as far as
This
town is concerned."
So I didn't see the rot
That
washed down the blvds
But
never managed to get
Into the
ocean to dilute;
Rather, pace
you,
It
settled into places
That
looked haunted
Though
how come haunted
None
could say;
The city
is a body,
Like
Agrippa might've said,
With its
diseases, abscesses,
Neglected
members and lusts,
Held
together by nothing
More
than straight will,
And the
odd detective
To bathe
it occasionally.
*
From my
diary, 31 August 1997
Last
night, we set up our brand-new VCR, connecting it to an old colour television
set in the bedroom. (We'll put together a real living room in a couple days, I
think.) From the video store we got a couple things, but what I wanted to see
was David Cronenberg's Crash. We watched it, and I was impressed, mostly. It
somehow fell short of Ballard's book, but whatever. The cars were great, and
the crashes were great.
M
fiddled about with the TV after that, and she got onto the news. Apparently,
and it turned out to be true, Diana had been in an accident in Paris and she
was in a hospital. And then, you know, she died.
And really I was shocked. The girl was crazy and all that, but
still, she had some history and heritage to her.
But what
I really got from the shock of it was something about Crash. Sure, you can go
on and on about the aestheticization of violence, abstractly-like, but outside
of fiction, it's a terrible thing. She was mangled, lacerated, and all because
of photographers.
I give
the film four stars out of five.
*
That It Ends
Sometimes,
I think it's merely the light in this room. It's not very bright; it's even
been remarked upon by a 3rd party. I thought it was between me and the light;
rather, I am forced to take some solace. Maybe I'm not going blind after all.
Walking
up slopes, I have a painful hip. Is that so every time? It seems pretty
tolerable, or even non-existent, if I'm going up slopes with someone. Mostly
it's only when I'm alone that it hurts. It's probably because I rush up slopes
when I'm alone. Maybe I'm not going lame after all.
I
completely forgot someone else purchased razors for me, and I went out and
bought another bag of them. Then I saw the bag on the shelf, and I said:
"I forgot!" However, no-one's ever bought me razors before; it's all
just a question of non-routine. Maybe I'm not going senile after all.
At
times, I think there's something deeply wrong with my guts. Digestion is
sometimes awry. On occasion, after a night of drinking, I have to rush to the
bathroom. But that issue goes away after a couple days. Maybe I'm not dying
after all.
*
In the
days going dark, light becomes precious. We store it away in closets to keep it
ready for whenever we want to use a little of it. It's all in twelve-ounce
cans, and we've got a can opener hanging on a hook for quick access. You pop
open a couple triangles on the top of the can and pour it over yourself. The
stuff is so well-packaged that nothing has ever leaked out of a single one.
They're
arranged in chronological order. The highest shelf holds the earliest hours of
the day; sunrise, early morning, mid-morning. These are quite popular, and we
have a lot of those times up there. Late morning, noon, and early afternoon are
on the middle shelf, ranged from left to right, of course. Then on the bottom
shelf we keep late afternoon and sunset and dusk. We keep very little of late
afternoon, however. I don't have a theory for why.
If we
were bats or raccoons, I suppose we would keep cans of darkness handy. But no we're not bats or raccoons. I hear we're what's called
diurnal. It has something to do with our eyes. Oh, canned light, canned light: Me
encanta.
*
Campus Novel
Scenario:
Don goes back to school to finally finish getting his M.A., some thirty years
after he left. A couple days in, he gets spotted by a fellow with headbanger
hair.
"Are
you a transfer student? I ain't seen you here
before."
Don
explains his situation.
"Ah!
So, you left! And now you've come back?"
Don
agrees.
"There's
a few of us here our age; you should join our rock band. We do the new music.
We've almost got Purple Rain down pat!"
Don is
in a math class, getting back a little test. He got seven out of nine, but only
one answer is marked with an X.
Headbanger
and another show up and surround him. Don shows him, says: "I should have
gotten eight out of nine."
The new
other says: "That's, like, a nine percent difference!"
As Don
and headbanger talk, the new other goes to a brick wall, climbs it several
feet, removes some bricks, and pulls out a large kielbasa, and knife and a
cutting board. Starts cutting.
Headbanger
says to other: "Oi, Nick: You ever taken this math class?"
Between
chews, other says: "Eleven times, I think."
These
two never left college.
I might
as well go on about this. Why not?
In the
vision, I thought I recognized the other guys; somehow, I took them from The
Young Ones, that old British comedy show. I can't say I've ever seen an
episode, but I think I've seen some clips somewhere, sometime.
I have
no idea how these guys could be in school for so long; you're usually given a
certain limit to finish any degree. I figure I could come up with three
different ways: one of them has secret means: he's the bastard child of the
school's president or something; another one slaloms between 'auditing' classes
and 'attending' classes, and nöone has caught on; and I don't know the third is
charming enough that nöone wants him to leave.
I would
have to certainly limit it to a single year, i.e. from
fall to spring. Weather could come into it.
There'd
have to be a love interest. "The audience‑God love 'em‑demands a pretty face."
There's
a whopping heap of opportunity for the grotesque. These three boy-children,
sheltered, not very aware of the outside world, constantly moving between
ignorance and sophistication....
Who
knows? Maybe some day, maybe years from now, maybe.
*
Look at
that woman walking along the high street, now, about noon. She's wearing a
maroon skirt and a white blouse, and she's looking into shop windows. She's
looking for an accessory that will make her feel pretty tonight.
However,
before tonight comes, she will have WON $72,000,000!
It's not
that she's insecure; rather, it's that she wants some little token to signify
she has herself to care about, and care about herself she does. The world she's
in is so small, sometimes, it's important to be careful.
Later
today, she will have WON $72,000,000!
Matters
of some or much importance, the details small or large, how near an object is
or how far it is, the colours of things, and their textures, how they smell,
matter to her;
that is
to say, until later, when she will have WON $72,000,000!
There's
some jewelry on sale in a shop window. She judges it from the other side of the
glass, imagining the sensation and the colour coordination. If she spends a
little less on lunch, she can afford the pink one. The world matters, and her
place in it.
But all
this will change, later, she will have WON $72,000,000!
*
Fantasia
The cats
get into their walnut brains the idea that they really have to do the same
thing every three hours: eat, run around for ten minutes, then sleep for two
hours and a half.
They get
into their brains the idea they might now be fed after all; perhaps there's no
food left in the cupboard, perhaps they've eaten their last meal, and perhaps
now they're going to starve to death.
Into
their brains goes the idea that, after all that work getting to be fed at the
proper three-hour interval, they're relieved once again that it worked; and
they're so happy-happy-happy they have to shove the rugs all over the place.
The cats
get into their walnut brains that golly that was exciting all right. There's
got to be some places to curl up in a self-congratulatory fashion, stretch, and
pass out in positions most remindful of moulded Jello.
They use
their brains to know when two hours have passed, and that it's time to lick fur
to generate an appetite. They stick out their enormous tongues and give
themselves the fiftieth-over. And they get the notion the whole routine has to
start again.
Meow!
Meow! Meow!
*
The
train station was painted a brilliant blue in the morning light. My colleague
brought the four visitors in his car. On the platform he told me: "Good
luck with these guys. I'll see you here in the evening."
They
didn't have money for the train fare, so I paid it. On the train they looked
out the windows at the south scene and made lively comments, none of which I
understood.
Detraining
at Union Station, I led them to our head office. I showed them around,
introduced them to my fellows, then we went to the presentation presented by
the Vice President for Globalization.
After
lunch, which I had to pay for, I showed them how we control traffic between our
two countries. They took notes constantly even though I had given them bound
dossiers (which I was, in effect, reading from).
Then it
was time to get them back to Guelph. We went to Union Station, I paid for four
one-way tickets and one return. Going in the other direction, they looked upon
the north scene and continued to make comments.
We got
to Guelph Station. The train station was painted a brilliant red in the evening
light.
*
Because
the theatres were closed due to plague, in 1593, Shakespeare wrote Venus and
Adonis. Then he wrote The Rape of Lucrece.
Please,
God, let this current plague, phony or not, end.
I so
want to get onto a streetcar to go to work. I want to look out its windows to
see the King Street shops, closed or shuttered or anything whatsoever. I very
much want to have some twenty-five minutes to uninterruptedly read The Rape
of Lucrece or something similar. I so want to
have some lunatic on the Dundas streetcar, if that's what I decide to take to
work (via a transfer at Dundas subway station to circle down to St. Andrew),
singing 'Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer', in snatches. I very much want to go
into that abomination of a building to struggle up four flights of stairs to go
through stinking halls to where loud people say things
they think are clever. Please, I so want to buy, beforehand, a pumpernickel
bagel, with cream cheese. I so want to see, perhaps to latterly mock, the
pretentions of 'journalists' who don't even read Shakespeare in their spare
time. I want to be in the world's foul mess.
*
As far
as glass houses go, mine is one of the most beautiful. You can see right
through it! The furniture is all made of glass, and I have glass curtains and
upholstery. Every day, from morning to night, people can look right in to see
exactly what I'm up to. I don't even have electricity because the wires could
obstruct just one person's vision. (I have a toilet, though, all of glass,
pipes made of glass.) I only let transparent people come in to visit, because
sight is everything. From the outside you can see me at all times. You can see
me dress in the morning into my transparent clothes, and in the evening you can see me take them off‑in a way‑and
get into my see-through bed with the see-through blankets. And you know what?
I'm perfectly happy in my see-through house. What could I possibly have to
hide? I'm a decidedly average guy, with average vices and not a single murder
to my name. I've seen other people with their transparent houses, but they
didn't make the effort I did. This house cost me a fortune. One day you'll see
my corpse decay.... You'll like it.
*
"We
had no choice that night but to spend it in a big YMCA dormitory. A giant grid
greeted us, of oblong mats tucked under the tables we were to use in the
morning for our gruelish breakfast. We couldn't find
any adjacent mats, so Gris had to bunker down some three mats away from me. I
read for a bit, fell asleep, and was awakened to some commotion. I looked over;
a large man was begging for Gris's attention in a dirty way. I went over and
intervened. The large man went away, and I looked around for an option. Saints
befall us, there was a small separate room, unoccupied. We dragged our mats
into it‑this was around 3AM‑and arranged ourselves. Some talk
ensued; she'd forgotten some things out in the bigger room; her laptop etc.; I
went looking for it. It wasn't there, but I found an attendant who'd been
tidying up and she had the laptop. Back in our little room we slept peacefully
for a couple hours until we were awakened by the manager, who told us the room
had been available all the time, but that an unauthorized occupancy would cost
us three more dollars."
*
I woke
up earlier than I really needed to, it was a wonderful thing.
I
toasted a bagel, and put cream cheese on it, it was a wonderful thing.
I
listened to Beethoven's 9th and wrote along, a wonderful thing.
I went
for a walk around the block, and that was a wonderful thing.
I sat
down to do some work in the daylight hours, and got paid for it, and o, it was
a wonderful thing.
I cooked
some pork for us, in our wonderful cast iron pan, and that was a wonderful
thing.
We watched
The Night of the Hunter for like the ninth time, which was a wonderful
thing.
I did
the dishes, and I did them swell, and that was certainly a wonderful thing.
I went
for an evening walk around the block, and that was indeed a wonderful thing.
Now I'm
listening to Beethoven's violin concerto, which is truly a wonderful thing.
In a
while, I'll mess around with Civilization V, and that's a wonderful thing.
And in a
while, I'll go up to bed for beddy-bye, and that's a wonderful thing.
And I'll
sleep, forgetting my few troubles, and that's a very wonderful thing.
*
The Rituals
When
Patriarch Rev died, his four sects came to me to demand new rituals to be
obeyed unto eternity. I held a great ecumenical council during which each sect
had their say as I took careful notes. As a sign that our community was blessed
by God himself, each sect agreed three times with all the other sects, three
times with two other sects, three times with only one other sect, and only once
did they want a ritual in which no other sect participated. Thus, I had to
design four rituals to be participated in by all four sects, four rituals in
which a single sect did not participate, six rituals in which one two sects
participated, and four rituals to be enacted by a single sect, for a grand
total of eighteen rituals.
I put it
all in a balanced spreadsheet. It all worked out. I mailed the four sects hard copies of my proposal, and everyone groused. I
tried again and again to convince them of the beauty of my solution, but it's
like I was on mute and I couldn't unmute. They couldn't see elegance; frankly,
I don't know what they were really after.
*
I'm not
about to look it up in the Britannica (being as I am far too Romantic for any
such endeavor); The End of the Affair (which I viewed earlier this week), by
Graham Greene, and made into a 1955 film starring Deborah Kerr (in again one of
her religiously-tinted roles), contains, as its turning point, the Jerries
bombing London with an unknown weapon which, since it travels faster than the
speed of sound, can't be heard by its target. It's a new type of bomb,
afterwards called the V2, developed by (among others) Werner von Braun, and put
into use in the last few months before V-E. (This are things I remember,
remember, so I've probably made one mistake so far.)
James
Lovelock, in a recent article, recalled how, in his Quaker family, his mother
(or perhaps his grandmother) was relieved to find out that these terrorist
weapons of mass destruction (which, for her, meant the slower V1) weren't
planes but instead 'flying bombs'. Since they were merely machines, and thus
relatively without control, culpability diminished.
Kerr,
because of a flying bomb (felt rather than heard), receives a religious
experience. (And don't forget: Gravity's Rainbow is about re-manning V2s.)
*
Afternoon,
friends. Is it that time once again? Are you feeling worn down, listless? Do
you want some step, do you need some pep? Shucks, don't be so gloomy, we all
get that way sometimes. My wife and kids died in a fire I caused. Let me tell
you, I was depressed for a whole year! But I'm here to tell you: I got over it,
and you can get over whatever little pestering you're in right now. However,
maybe you need some help, some tonic, some elixir. Maybe you think common
street drugs are the answer, or maybe even some store-bought pharmaceuticals.
But let me tell you, they don't work as advertised. However: look: here's
something you've never seen before, something that'll cure whatever ails you.
Yes, I admit it: the bottles look very small, but you know what? It's
concentrated. Yes, each bottle is packed to its cork with powerful
molecules and atoms carefully organized into a liquid matrix of God's own design!
(I'm just the middle-man, har.) You want to know what
it is? Do you really want to know what it is? It's called WATER. That's
right: it's WATER. It's mere WATER. It's nothing but WATER.
*
It
wasn't much of a river to speak of, as I found out in the morning. (When I'd
arrived, with my tent of smallness and my blankets from the mill of blankets,
it had been too dark to get much of a sense of it.) As I was saying, it wasn't
much of a river; it was mostly rocks and stones, though there was a part of diminutivity that could be called a pool of smallness. As I
was sorting my things in the tent, I considered bathing in it, but, by the time I emerged, there were people who in numbers
exceeded more than a few in the area. So I decided to
sit and look with simplicity at the pool, and there I espied a woman of
greatness of beauty, bathing placidly. She waved to me, climbed out, and walked
toward me. She was naked in totality. "You gonna
come join me?" she asked. "Water's fine; clean, too." "No,
thank you," I said. "I am occupied to fulness."
"Really?" She looked around. "It's not that," I said.
"Well then, what?" "It's a problem we could call linguistic that
I am occupied with. I am trying to distort language."
*
Everything's
a could. Let's slide down that slide and watch how tomorrow begins. Why not see
what that tree-fort is like, even though it's trespassing? Let's be wicked,
let's be pirates, let me hold you captive, and then I'll show you. We have
time, plenty of time, let's plan a party and plan to invite all our favourite
dolls.
Everything's
a could. I can make up for it in the mid-terms. It was well worth it, what's a
weekend between friends and classes? Maybe I'll fall in love, should I fall in
love with him? Let's mess around with the tarot deck, I've got a book about how
to read the cards. Can you imagine it, in 2030, if I'm idiotic enough to live
so long, I'll be sixty-five. God! Don't tell me about
it!
Everything's
a could. We'll go away for that weekend. Where should we go? We could spend
some time talking about when we were children. Yes, Christmas at my
grandmother's house, and now half the table's dead. I spend too much time doing
this, I wasted too much time doing that. Who said there's a great deal of waste
in a civilization? He means life too?
*
Do you sense
you've gotten immured in some place not of your choosing? Can you feel a voice
high overhead‑is it your father's voice?‑it
sounds like your father's voice‑demanding your attention even though you
haven't seen him in so long? What's the voice want? And what's that other
voice, coming from that room over there? You were in it just a couple minutes
ago, no more than a half-hour ago, talking with some dozen people lying down on
cots and ready to sleep, so which one of them is talking now? Is it you they're
after? How did you get here in the first place? Where's your bags, your
luggage, your toothbrush, your pills? There's got to be a bus or train station
or an airport around here somewhere, but do you think you'll ever be able to
find the right door? Still the voices are talking, maybe or maybe not to you,
but still don't you feel they're directed at you? Put your problems in
sequence, from A to B to C to D, and can you ever hope to get the sequence perfectly right? How do you expect to know which is important,
and which to let follow?
*
Outside is Inside's Inside
"The
problem with what you say is that we all start out
inside; that is to say, in the womb."
"I've
thought about that," I replied. I was lying on the bed on my tummy with my
back arched and my arm under my breasts so he could get a good look. We were in
an inn.
He
stubbed out his cigarette. "So, you have to go outside before you go
inside."
"Nope!
Very few people are born outside, al fresco. Most are in rooms like this one.
Right there, see? that outside is an inside too. You can go into the same
inside, deeper and deeper, inside after inside; conversely, you can go outside
forever, further and further out. I simply choose to be consistent about it.
Unambiguous. Outside, inside: I go one way, or the other. Only I know for
sure."
"I
still don't see how that affects your behaviour."
"It's
just that I know it's new spaces forever, like each hour is differently made.
This time with you is like no other."
Hands
moved. I continued: "Right now."
And,
that said, I climbed onto him and enclosed his prick deeply with my pussy.
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