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talkin' to detweilers
My experience of talking to Linford is this . . . I have fairly often
found myself within feet or inches of Linford in situations where I could
easily have a few words (bites?). I'm thinkin', fer example, of a random
night at Kaldi's, where I was standing momentarily inches from the boy in
that connecting space between the two halves (y'all know that space? of
course you do). Did I say anything? Nope. Even a "Hi" or a "Hey,
there, cat"? Nope. That's just one example.
I think I need a reason and a context. A cup of coffee after an
interesting film, maybe.
Or else my id (or superego?) prefers to leave the kids a little
mysterious, and so counsels my ego into silence. Of course, the
neo-freudians like Lacan-and-spawn reject Freud's 3-part schema of the
personality, so maybe this doesn't explain it; but I think somehow
something subconscious must be involved. But nothing with my Mom. Don't
be sick, Oedipus. :p
Fred
PS: Rhys! Congrats!
PPS: Jeni Smith! Hooray for Jeni Smith!!
now reading: The Great Gatsby. Being struck by comparisons to The Crying
of Lot 49, actually. And by the wonderful pivot created by chapter
seven. And by the great impressionistic scenery.
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