Wine (Part III)

When I take off my slightly crooked glasses, my eyes take about ten seconds to adjust to their new alignment. It is that period of blurred confused sterreopsis that I channeled last evening, though my glasses were on for most of it. It was blurry climbing of fire escapes, looking for reprieve on the rooftops above the city and university, something done without the almost subconscious General Order #1: gather experience and then throw it out upon the page and text. No, this was a night of just sprawling, of just drunk and reeling in the aisles of excess, of just letting that old joke percolate through and nurse a touch on the upper arm for the rest of the evening. Of course, it not all rosy: on one rooftop we found a trio of like-minded coeducational rooftop escapists but I could not find the barbarian W of Cassiopea, or the lonely Ursas (major and minor) and thus no Polaris and no Arcturus, no summer stars, no ascendants and zeniths and nadirs and no Mars the God of Wars. That, and I was getting a headache from the White Russians I had purchased with nothing but my good looks (eat your heart out Ginsberg--relevant line is line fifteen). I'm getting more headaches lately. Naturally, stars lead to discussions of the universe, loping consctucts of wonder, depth and baselessness: wailing songs to the moon, really invocations to the Mohammedian angles populating that invisible Cassiopea. At no point, however, was there talk of cognitive science; no talk of AI, no talk of the sentient singularities which will one day dance around the husks of burned-out stars, dancing as long as they can and nursing their gift of consciousness for as long as the Heat Death of the Universe is still at bay. I can't believe I missed the popportunity to discuss it with someone in Comp Sci: because compared to those hardcore people I'm just a patchouli-scattering, rain-dancing, peyote-swilling hippie, I'm not and I am. You couldn't tell just by looking at me.

Consider: "America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood? / I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his automobiles more so they're all different sexes / America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe..."