Tuesday November 12th 2013 Tim
The Artist cheerfully greeted me this
morning with, "Today is eleven, twelve, thirteen." I was staring
out the window at the "wintery mix." A horrible sight upon which I
blame the context of The Artist's greeting eluding me.
As a rule, when floundered by meaning,
the reaction is to make some sort of noise. In the early morning, I
can think of this noise as a limbic reaction. And under no
circumstances does the limbic system like to appear uncomprehending.