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Oct. 17th, 2015 11:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
proximoceptionThe problem was solved with charm necklaces. You let people know just how much you already knew about what they might say by carrying readily-deciphered symbolic tokens. Convenience stores sell plastic ones, but of course there was a market for other sorts - precious versions, artful versions, strange. The token for conveying how well one understood the absurdity of those was a plastic watermelon with diamond seeds. Zircons, when bought on the corner.
A young woman I met last night understood everything about Greek poetry, anal sex and what makes most American males uncomfortable, and by grouping these three charms together prominently expressed her desire that I, that anyone, should consider these forms of knowingness overlapping, perhaps sourced in some defining episode of her past we might like to ask about when the time was right. She could tell by my face that I saw right through this, and I reached up to tweak my tokens of anger, shame and honor in appreciation of her ensuing gesture of handing me a token shaped like her head. I dropped it in the fountain by the corporate park, of course. She knew I would, I could see by the tiny charm at the base of her token's neck. One can't remember everyone.
Though I see you know that. My apologies. You know so many things that it's hard to locate what's relevant in time. Do you really know that many? One doesn't have to prove oneself before purchasing, of course. I can't swear all of mine are of equal valuation. Though one does feel one perhaps knows a bit of everything at my age. An age you can guess by the chain that weighs me down. This chain made of chains. The smaller charms added to qualify or nuance or undermine or reinforce others, and those doing the same to those - it is these that make one feel caught in one's own net, I think. Till some Sunday in a fit one goes and snips off all the small ones. Those that haven't been snagged by another's train when one was distracted. Or do you know this too? I seem to feel that once you did. No, please, I'd only throw it in the fountain. And please don't fear I'll give you mine. It is pleasant to feel off the clock, is it not? And to use so many words. From the pain inside my throat I can tell they're the first I've spoken in days. From the pain on its outside I gather my charms have become tangled hopelessly again. The worst thing's not the bleeding but when the offending piece gets healed inside the cut it made, pulling everything tangled with it closer in. More chafes, more cuts. More healings over. Till who knows what I know. Perhaps my body?
What's this? A dachshund halfway through a hoop? Caught there? And the hoop's his own back half? I don't know if I've earned this. No, keep that, it's yours. I'll see if I like how one looks on me the next time I stop at the corner.
A young woman I met last night understood everything about Greek poetry, anal sex and what makes most American males uncomfortable, and by grouping these three charms together prominently expressed her desire that I, that anyone, should consider these forms of knowingness overlapping, perhaps sourced in some defining episode of her past we might like to ask about when the time was right. She could tell by my face that I saw right through this, and I reached up to tweak my tokens of anger, shame and honor in appreciation of her ensuing gesture of handing me a token shaped like her head. I dropped it in the fountain by the corporate park, of course. She knew I would, I could see by the tiny charm at the base of her token's neck. One can't remember everyone.
Though I see you know that. My apologies. You know so many things that it's hard to locate what's relevant in time. Do you really know that many? One doesn't have to prove oneself before purchasing, of course. I can't swear all of mine are of equal valuation. Though one does feel one perhaps knows a bit of everything at my age. An age you can guess by the chain that weighs me down. This chain made of chains. The smaller charms added to qualify or nuance or undermine or reinforce others, and those doing the same to those - it is these that make one feel caught in one's own net, I think. Till some Sunday in a fit one goes and snips off all the small ones. Those that haven't been snagged by another's train when one was distracted. Or do you know this too? I seem to feel that once you did. No, please, I'd only throw it in the fountain. And please don't fear I'll give you mine. It is pleasant to feel off the clock, is it not? And to use so many words. From the pain inside my throat I can tell they're the first I've spoken in days. From the pain on its outside I gather my charms have become tangled hopelessly again. The worst thing's not the bleeding but when the offending piece gets healed inside the cut it made, pulling everything tangled with it closer in. More chafes, more cuts. More healings over. Till who knows what I know. Perhaps my body?
What's this? A dachshund halfway through a hoop? Caught there? And the hoop's his own back half? I don't know if I've earned this. No, keep that, it's yours. I'll see if I like how one looks on me the next time I stop at the corner.
