82:13 is the number of minutes:seconds I just spent on the phone with Kacie. 12:45 is the current hours:minutes of the right-now time. It has been raining all night and all day and all of the so-far night again, and we await more clement weather for our moving excercises.

Mya stumbles slowly, shifting shuffling down the hallway. Jack and Percy purring peacefully, pleasant pacing of heavy sound. I am an alliteration addict, alphabatizing and altering all my thoughts, modus-operandizing and mutilating memories, making mumbles and malarky- a malacious maven of mumpsy-pumpsy-woo.

I hide in my little corner of the Yorkshire Dales, pushing back-and-leg leverage hard against the encroaching war and tractors, singing plowhorses and stones and two-foot-thick sod walls. Sing sheep-slayer, bark-herder, bayer of bogs and bullrushes.

Beowulf has gone to my head. I suspect a fever. A fever, or the brain worms. Mayhaps both.

But back to my dream-hiding.

Dream-burrows much better than my recent bed-dreams, which taunt with school-shootings and heirloomy-things. Parents who don't see me, green cars perfect-sized for D. Marcos Vital, whom I have not seen in years. In the dream he is still small, fine-featured but whole, small but not little. Wee but not ickle? But the words get away...

So what do I do now? I can't hide in dreams or dream-sequences, but even living is hiding from everything that you cannot see hear touch taste smell faith. By trying to transcend that tautology, do you miss out on everything that, binding living, defines life? It cannot all be carbon-carbon, not even reinforced carbon-carbon (although my heartstrings could use a little heat-resistant tile). You want me to go deeper there, you say that's what this whole paragraph is leading up to, but I say that all I meant is that you cannot have life, either, without a bit of nitrogen, oxygen, phosphorus, chemical, chemical, atom, atom, atom.

Everything is made of atoms. Yes, yes, you say, but I have gone mad for the simplicity and fractal complexity of it. Take your skin, magnify. Flakes on top, hairs, microbes, critters. Magnify more, deeper (More! Deeper!), to cells, fair membrane borders, gross morphology. Nucleus there, ER, mitochondria, golgi golgi golgi (what a wonderful word). Deeper! Faster! Big folds of RNA into ribosomes, cranking out huge chains of link-link-link, codon after codon of massive molecules, amino acids folded into proteins the size of city blocks.

Crawl inside those huge building active sites of the ribosome, which is just a little speck on my electron micrographs. Warm. Wet. Close. Deeper! One-third of a codon, just one wee base pair, made of sugar-phosphate backbone, the nitrogenous base bit getting all the credit. But just that base has SO MANY ATOMS. Resolve it smaller. More! Bigger! Harder! Faster! Big fuzzy ill-resolved planetary systems of dense dense core and millions of miles of uncertainty-cloud. How well can you resolve, even with the three-story microscopy with big drop-down radiation shields, when Everything. Is. Moving.

Fever. I blame the fever. Science, to me, is neither sex nor religion (and neither is sex sect, nor faith coitus), but it is full of little tiny planetary systems... And I love that. Big vast wide expanding mirrored in these miniscule spastic quantum fools. But I'm not getting into that, now, or we'll be here having my psychic psychotic love affair with hearing myself type for at least a decade.

the hedge abides.

<< - >>