Shutting off.

It's very seldom I become so upset over any reading.

The Tempest takes the pie.

I've never read it before.

I'll probably read it ten times before we finish semester.

I do not like it mind you.

In fact I quite detest the undertones Shakespeare places in it.

.....

"Kushman What is Up?"

"Dude I'm in my own world"

This is me talking to my roommates. They are very much in their own world and they still have the cognitive ability to notice that I am completely off of this earth.

The feeling in my stomach, the distant glaze in my eyes, and the running thoughts...... the connections with every character, with Prospero's gambit, with the fact I've read it and I've read it before, that I've read it after.

I've taken the bait.

I'm damned if I do,

I'm absolutely ruined if I delve into it. It will serve to eat me up until I'm done with it. This could not have come at a worse time. Or perhaps it's all in the timing? What is time anyway?

I'm absolutely miserable about it.

I can't even speak about the play.

..................................................................................................................................................................

This is something I wrote last year describing the utter control I lost when deciphering Transparent Things.

The bad thing about finding you,

Once again riddled with mystery,

with that tempting taste assisted

By all our shut off hours,

All your shut in days and nights….

Well, you tend to shut me off too.

And it’s lovely.

........................................................................................................................................................................

Oh,

Ten bucks Sexson mentions the Muses.