November 19th Starting Out, by Sheila Murphy.
Mr. Cassidy is coming to replace the structure with a structure. I hear his nickname's Cass. The day lacks turbulence in general. I'm headed out to Mesa, for a start. Bev is putting on her makeup, following strong dosages of flax and tea. I'm in a suit, the top is white. Monday veritably glistens. I have heard not nearly enough of the delirium that I save for beauty days. Don't say the pleasure is all yours. This house becomes a plaited threesome: comfort, leisure, art, when all we do is work the shavings into consonance. Our coast has been declared clear. The two-way radio gives glasnost its annoying due. Listen to the populace accepting full responsibility for learning Middle Eastern whatnot like a sixties reprise of camaraderie. Meanwhile the house, the files, the cardboard, the discard-ance; any day now, we will gain more space. Leaflets included in the pendulum continue to be swaying to and fro so anyone can measure tread and scamper speed. Any old perimeter is lorded over every obvious onlooker with a stain on his front shirt. The maze is why we live to fall in line. The very tidy banter going on has been peremptorily shelved in favor of the distance. Time excoriates due diligence until we're mindful anymore of satisfaction that belongs outside the fold. If ever the dispassionate commandment were to flee, we'd have a full convenience store of gravy set to match the leaves. The pretty dorm room sustenance begs us to have ported out our chemistry. These gloves are dried. Our centrist views still vie with what has passed the point of surgery. Do you like the sound of breaking bread? So let's go back to Mr. C and why he's here now, chuckling with Bev at her replenished desk. The papers stacked remind me there are two of us and not nearly enough legroom without breaking out one wall after the next. He has a plan, we have a plan, and parsing generally takes place where one would least expect. We join our panel now in process with its playthings halfway hurting on the borderline. Is this the century we once noticed leading to another storm? I'm guessing what we fight for is the passing fleet of scars to be unnoticed for at least a little time. When I am writing, this is what I write. When I am clothed, this is the kind of thing I wear. When I'm asleep, this is unlike what I am dreaming.
Figure pointing north and then onlookers positioned from the various directions
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