Apophenia

A stone with strange inscriptions on it. It’s the only line I remember from Fort. It has been four years and four months since I last mentioned it.

Tudor breasts and the parade of daughters (blowers, bonesetters, heretics, alchemists). At least one of them from something Imani said, somewhere, some time ago.

I read Dr. Bloodmoney a few days ago. I’m trying to save them for the years to come. Some day I will have read them all, but— they say Dick got here before the rest of us did, and I don’t want to have to leave him behind.

I love Cayce Pollard, I think. That’s why I reread her -to be with, or to be her, the familiar partly-tamed pathologies and obsessions. Postdrome migraine euphoria is like shoegaze drone, pleasant and buzzy and sad, made for the end credits of a movie with Bill Murray as the gaijin face of Bikkle. It’s the first and gentler half of the book that I love the best, before events overtake us.

I’m having trouble with the year, the October that won’t end. The season, but more so than usual, and what should have been over by now has crept into me and will not out.

I need to take care of myself, I know. And I am, in my fashion. But it should hurt when you break something, and it does.