Ooog.

I am sitting in a black chair which perches on the unsteady ground like a faux Victorian iron spider which has been inexplicably painted black, hiding the beautiful not quite ready to rust yet form which I admire so much in those complicated, hulking, coal eating engines. I am perched on this perch-ed thing, rocking as I type both physically and mentally, fingers idly dancing like those of an android in a movie made several years ago and subsequently remade but never recaptured. The beasties' hands unfold like origami in reverse - extend and lightly dance over the keys - I imagine my hands doing the same thing, except they only dance, they cannot unfold and contemplating my hands doing anything related to origami makes me cringe slightly inside.

I hate that idea of something forced against its will and perhaps against its nature and believe that all true crimes have some element of this seed which is so repellent to my mind. But now I am forcing myself to write which may be a crime but fuck it this shit isn't going to write itself and sometimes you've got to take a few slaps, even if you're the one giving and receiving them.

I am like Santa Claus, except with "tough love".

But this love is stuck inside right now and this inside is surrounded by bones then flesh then freckles (not cancer!) and after these fleshy bits you find a sleek otter of a jacket, water resistant and light weight and prone to doing tricks. A few fleshy bits protrude from the open top of my amphibious jacket and these are the parts that always get wet, which is a shame because Woody Allen tells me that the corresponding bits on his own body are his second favorite parts.

I have glasses now. I am secretly Clark Kent, except without the superpowers or small town upbringing.

I could describe what you see when we look at each other across the space between two seats or over a table or across a classroom or even dimly through the fog which never drifts over Oglethorpe's quad except at night. But you already know your view and even if you didn't I wouldn't trust it. Trust me instead - I know all about my face and I could describe it in minute detail but these details always change and I find the best description is the one I wake up to each morning, fumbling around the bathroom for glasses and coffee and sometimes catching sight of a nervous and grim pink blob which also catches sight of it's brother through the mirror, but always looks away when I do.

That's me. I am the pink blob.

I have nothing of the elegance of these molded bits of Brooks Stevens style planned obsolescence like soldiers and spies ready to seek out and perhaps destroy across this electric chasm. I am timeless every morning until I find my glasses.

This is me, the pink blob, grinning without moving my mouth as you watch me from behind this transparent glass screen or that slightly unsteady sheet of freshly printed paper you hold in one hand or even from behind your own pink blob as I finish reading this and avoid meeting your gaze and finally pause for breath.