idle fornicatey-fornicatey, Naggy Wall, and Thomas Pynchon

Idle fornicatey-fornicatey, Naggy Wall, & Thomas Pynchon

My occasional (much too occasional) girlfriend, Naggy Wall, apparently has a more steady boyfriend.  Thomas Pynchon.

Mr. P has just gotta be hooked into Ms. Wall’s essence to a degree which probably would be too much for me to handle.  Naggy and I hook up rarely, too rarely by my estimation, but — ya’ know what? — the frequency is prob’ly just ’bout enuff.

I drive to werk the requisite 5-daze a week, and in the morning commute, Naggy’s voice sometimes is in my ear (rarely, if ever, during the derive hoam).  Inspired by her hints, whispers, suggestions, I marvel at the transitoriness of weather-related phenomena, shadows, tints and hues and shades of lighting.  And the meditation upon the tip of the iceberg.

I’m just a blip, (define “blip”) upon the planet, azzitturnz, the kisses and caresses of the celestial upon the terrestrial.  I am not the only one to notice.

During the major transition periods, sunrise/sunset, if I have any wits about me, I marvel.  It is during the ‘marvel’ I, inna manner of speaking, leap upon the whirled lyings and connect.  Yes, I know, you are, we all are, it all is, a part of it.

And I em-biggen.  (Thankyew, Lisa Simpson).

Naggy takes many forms, for, you see, she is essentially formless.  And in being formless she can embody all, and then some, forms.  She is rarely there when you are actively looking, and, I sometimes think I’m sure, always there when you are just … plain … otherwise involved.  Or not involved.

Huh.  “Stay involved” any sage-of-the-moment would intone.  And so I’d defer.  Retreat.  Turn and, no — I’d not run — but pretend to casually amble away.

I think I make an effort to ignore the sage-of-the-moment and listen to whatever voice there is beyond the cacophony.

On the personal plane my uber-significant other continually plans, schemes, wants to upgrade, improve the premises, shore up the sagging defensive walls.  No telling how deep the dust and detritus would be if I were adrift, alone.

And what about Thomas Pynchon?  Thanks, Mr. P — through you it certainly seems that the maya is more easily discerned as such after reading some of your stuff.

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