Apology

Don't mind me. I know I can sound like an underheated attorney on crack and science, but he's just a character of mine who shares my concerns. I'm the same old Chris. Maybe you never knew the same old Chris. He jokes a lot, meows a lot, still thinks the SCAT bus system should be renamed, puts lots of black pepper on his chicken sandwiches, and despite his castles in the sky, is afraid of heights.

I can't clear the air of pretense. It comes rolling in like fog. I'm still learning how to ask words to model my sensibility beyond my thoughts, without degenerating into IM-speak (speaking of which, I wrote a poem recently in the form of an IM chat). It's going slow -- see, I was tempted to say, slow going.

I would say, we are who we are, but of course we're not. Not really. We're protean machines: part meme and perhaps part soul. All in the ratio and in its flux? I have a strange muse, a boy-beauty scrubbed of most his boy beauty so that I can concentrate on what little remains. The world is too much with us -- until we look at it from across the way?