Pixillationery cont.

Gumbo’s popping up everywhere and yet I’ve none of it to eat, that’s significant.

Nimble nimble,


Much has “gone down” as somewhone or another’s said, and I wish I could share it with all of you personally. When I first blogged, I marveled at the capacity I had to send a  letter to so many at once, now I sometimes feel a modicum brought-down to address so many, see the reactions, the grins of delight and the eyes of intrigue, of so few. On which topic, I saw near dear beloved faces on New Year’s enough to face the new year a-bravened. I-miss-you being the point of the matter (duly). In the same thought I can get so tender with distance, so zipped out with joie de everyt’ing (elegiac effulgent). So goes the missing you all (soft). So goes the life trance (bloomhissening). Can I rest the onus of my current scatt’ruintion (I refuse to blame it) on the Zappa tunes blaring now askance (askance)?

I decided this morning that NUANCE is a word whose signifieds I could pay more attention to and thus entrust myself with the better parts of cosmic signifmuddies and so I wrote it on the forearch of my thumb, where I read it even now. That being a juncture. not a conclusion (conclusions the perniciousest of confidence men).

This is all to say that I have so much to share, so few ways I know to do so.

Here goe’s -parts- of it.

One place to measure the beginning of my holiday season is the English Department Christmas party which was held at Somehoteloranother on last month’s [I set this sentence up, grammatically, to place a date here, but I can’t remember it, which may be for the better, and significant, but it was some significant number of days before Christmas, proper] and had me, at mid-evening’s crest, on a stage, reading rousing pulls from my recent novella and hip-cat scat-improvating blues growls over Sam’s harmonica to applause, of sorts, prompting a favorable comparison to Captain Beefheart from one of my co-workers. And, ensuing, bliss.

I’ve just flopped through my journal in a benevolent effort to lend chronology and credulity to the last month of my life, here recounted, and found very little of what could thereby be helpful. It’s been a radical time’s the message (not the point, so aggressive a thing to attach to every given thing; pbrrbht!). At some point I made eggnog with my buddy Kate, which restored spirits mightily in this otherwise nogdry region-season. I made latke’s for the Christmas feast to much of given lechiams from friends, girl and goy alike (a-kindle with season’s spirits).

I did a few days of extra work for reasons as yet unexplained in my direction. Regarding these days, the last of which (and onto New Year’s) brought Dave Madsen, an ex-compatriate from Augsburg-ways, to my door, direction, and whimsy. In our time together, two days and then some less, the juxtaposition of a person (so much more than, say, an object) from my last context with the landscape of my current one provided as much insights into either, perhaps, as did either into the other (or somewhich). It was neat.

Right now I’m listening to The Gumbo Variations by Frank Zappa, see what I mean?

This is about the fifth hour I’ve spent at home in the last fifty. Somewhat of otherwise what I’ve done is dither, frothing at whiles frisky. I left my dorm some couple days past to bus surf bop, stopping by the ferry terminal, at while, for purposes of micturation and caffeination, noticing without purpose that John Lennon continues to so rock ‘n’ rule. I found many hidden things: a demolished neighborhood/rolling brickhills in heaps (unnoticeable from roadside), a marble wall between nothing and a tree, a lovely public park, an enchanted farm, a cave, a boulder as big as your dreams that was well worth climbing, even in the rain (no broken heads), two friendly strangers, Hanukkah geld, and three teeny chocolate bottles with liqueur in. I got lost, stayed overnight at a hot spring with a friend and two strangers. So it was yesterday (though yesterday may not be at all the day I seek) that I blow-dried my beard (whose lusciousness and bellisimosity lately encroaches grandiosity’s claims) and gave it the sea-parting umph it’s been wanting to show its full voluptuity to the masses’ glasses. From Zhingshan I came home, watched A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, and went out again. My buddy Kate and I watched F for Fake and talked for some many hours, some part over bowls of lovely lentil soup (so right for winter, even in the sub-tropics (but no substitute gumbo, surely)). Talking late, I satyed in her guest bed and, while she shopped for tickets out of Myanmar/Burma, I spent the morning reading nearly half of Fierce nvalids Home from Hot Climates. Now I’m back, a-brandied and bandy-legged, vigor-dancing to Adventure Time and the rumblings of friendship in my friends’ apartment of a fort-hour.

I’m headed down dinnerwise.

Cha cha cha.


2 Responses to “Pixillationery cont.”

  1. greendouglas Says:

    Awash in the Joycean effulgence of your prose, I lave myself in the buoyant effluvia of far-off lands borne downstream by the word-flood. (It’s time to read Woolf’s “To the Lighthouse”–a different modernism.) Thanks for the prose stream, the newsy bits and the beauties, the sad fragments too, and the Odyssean nostalgia.–DG

  2. cstanhill Says:

    And thanks, in turn, for the word turns. It’s fun to have my sources reflected back through me (my thinking’s so affected just so lately that I didn’t even think of Joyce in the writing, I often just write like that). Good to hear from you; cheers!

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