wado

Maybe it was the ocean, or by extension the notion that there were locales other than a cold and drafty apartment and within them existed the possibility of being in the elsewheres, but I couldn't sleep tonight and I still cannot. If you are asleep and anywhere near New York City, then you are missing a tremendous windstorm. It sounds the way an earthquake should feel. If you are outside in New York City tonight, then that is just foolish. Not that foolishness is anything to be ashamed of or feel bad about, I myself take up the banner often enough and leap off the ledge with a gigantic zero painted on my chest, but lets be honest, if you were outside in New York City tonight you were probably crying (because of the wind). That's at least understandable, and easy to deal with, as opposed to say being out in the rain and not knowing if you are actually crying or if you simply have rainwater running into your eye.

Whatever it was that was keeping me from sleep had something to do either with the ocean or the wind, at the least some manner of worldwide ecological phenomena, because it was the feeling of movement that has kept me up. Why this is I am still puzzling out, and it takes me a long time to puzzle events of this nature out, and if I can be honest for a second it takes me a while to puzzle most things out, but its still here itching at me and I am still puzzling. My foot itches and I take that as a sign. It's a twinge, a prick, and prodding by a stick on a cosmic scale of all subtle hints that it just has to get itself worked out, whatever this "it" happens to be. Apparently it involves Gustav Courbet, because after thinking briefly about Courbet earlier this evening it was in the above moment immediately preceding the Gentleman Realist's appearance in this scrawl that I went to the wikied encyclopedia and lo and behold there was the painter referenced to one of his paintings, and started to think again about the beginning of a book of poetry where a poet named Matvei wrote a book called The Present Work and said in there that it all began wit Gustav Courbet but he was quoting someone else but what followed after got in there, got in my head. It jangled around a bit and knocked a few things around. Now that it was in my head, well, it made its way over to another room, and in that other room there was a kind of meeting going on, a meeting that had been going on for a very long time, and it looked kind of like the ending of a comic book in which a bunch of people from a very strange family are all seated around a table and then you walked into the room and that was that, you woke up.