This morning I put on my last clean T-shirt. By design, it showed an image of The Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour. Thinking actively for the first time in a long time of that album I’ve spent so much time adoring, I sang its songs to myself all the time bike-ride long to work. Re-reading one of my favorite books of old – the same gone time I listened to “Fool on the Hill” every day after school – Tom Robbins’s Fierce Invalids Home from Hot Climates, I ran within a couple pages into an indirect usage of the phrase “magical mystery tour.” I looked down at my chest and was glad. Reading on (largely, what I’ve done today) I ran into a slurry of completely improvable and thoroughly compelling references in the text to (and precisely limited to) the last three authors I’ve read: James Joyce, Aldous Huxley, and Alan Watts. It passed my mind to record the synchronicities, instead I left them to jitter happily and unrecordstrained in their respective moments, in my past. At any rate, all whatever I make a show of committing to memory ends up of the same character when I C.R.A.F.T.
Herenow I sit, listening to, reading, and wearing it all.