Reading with Indigestion After the Pandemic

I lay mostly awake, almost in a panic, from too much unaccustomed rich food and wine. My seeming fevered imagination recalls the day's peregrinations in search of a stick shift car. Inside the ones that I could have spin endless rounds of mindless interconnections. I want to drive dammit, not to be driven. I need at least to picture what is going on.

Automobiles now like golf carts, even reminding you when you approach a hole; prompting you to look up from whatever doomscroll passes on your phone. In my forced awakeness I catalog shopping trips. Rude memories of empty shelves for toilet paper may have been part of the impetus to install a squirting toilet seat. At least I won't ever have to fret for pinching shit between my cheeks, though I do discover that my skin there is tender now when forced to wipe. Perhaps frozen raw by my lack of wherewithal to make the squirting heated. 

How much flour shall I keep in reserve? How much pasta? I measure the balance between nearby store and my shelves and shall never again be completely calmed by how close it is.

Rolling along overfilled tailgated lanes past almost unbelievably ugly squat structures sporting touts for this and that, without even any hint of architectural digest. It is abomination cast in fake stone. Getting even worse by the flashing lights of delivery vans right in my lane.

Of course, I am attempting Nabokov Pale Fire as the simpler alternative to Finnegan's Wake which shall never be worth my bother, or the Recognitions which inevitably shall be. Metanovel, what? Oh please. Exposing the structure is interesting only to dissectionists.

Hypertext progenitor, I do actually own two Kindles and can, therefore, move easily back and forth between the cantos and the cruel send-up of all academics, true to my own experience though that may be. I am rather more sympathetic.

There are roads left to travel, though not many. Not very many at all. We suffocate in sameness.

I feel it all fall apart. We all do, but won't admit it. Our landscape the fever dream of getting by and shooting for the very top. We drive the landscape of raw greed, and where's the advancement in that? 

I truly have no understanding of what, truly is left of the attraction of, say, the Himalayas. To climb perchance to die and along the way to make everything worse for your efforts. I'll watch the filmic version and be plenty excited enough. There are plenty of real heroes, locally.

I was treated by my wealthy friend who had the good sense or good fortune to inherit scads of Eli Lilly. The restaurant so self-consciously tasteful I knew that it would have to be one of at least several in a chain, though it touted a chef of its own. There was utterly nothing fine about the food and so where is the line between a Macmansion and the superstar houses depicted as a kind of pornography on or through our webs? The taste is all gone. My digestion has aged is all. 

Shall we survive this our maturity on our planet. Perhaps small enclaves, but where it the art? Wasn't there something good once?

Where is the love? It would seem that the king of our Amazon wanted only large tits. My boat is more fun to sail. Bush free for the sake of grinding beef. Really? Is that all that there is? I don't even want an automobile anymore. I would rather walk or ride in the company of nice architecture. Nice people, well read and fed and led by those who at least know how to read.