counterfeits of ourselves

For nearly ten years I was thus borne along a road

this was going to be a travelogue of the lower bay area and/or a secret history of young adulthood in the 21st century but it turns out that the lower bay area is not a real place (narp) and i am neither a young adult nor sufficiently engaged with the 21st century to comment on it in any event. i went to a biology conference, and i overheard/was dragged into interactions typified by the following

:: man picks up book called “Rat” that has silhouettes of rats all over. turns to me, where i am serenely enjoying my 9th cup of coffee of the morning and asks, “is this book about rats?”

:: [points to price on back of book] is this the price?

:: [points to book] this is a book?

:: [points to a copy of a book] do you have a copy of that book?

i do not know or care how many of this communication breakdowns were brought on by language difficulty, xenon radiation, etc. all i care is that i lived through them

San Jose is not a romantic place. After my sojourn to SJ i went more or less immediately to Brooklyn for holiday relaxation. Brooklyn wasn’t terribly relaxing, not for lack of pleasant company. then i spent most of the waking hours on the actual alleged holiday in the newark airport watching people talk into increasingly large and complicated cellular phones. some of these devices appeared to have radar transmitters and or tiny hygenic robots inside them. i am increasingly unfit for exposure/irrigation to the outside world. part of current melancholia/general phobia has been brought on by reading mostly melancholic, sadeyed novels about failure and or alienation from loved ones. i am now going to read Under the Volcano, which will probably result in something mauve.

RIP: the 53rd street jewel osco outlet. i once bought a TV from you. i am presently occupied watching DVDs with that TV, while you have gone the way of the great american passenger pigeon.

i am going back to bed to contemplate various shortcomings. send me a postcard.

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