Robot Dickens: "potable potpourri"

"phew, for a minute there, I lost myself.... I lost myself.... I lost myself..."

strangled by yards of sentence surrounding like crime scene tape, something of a Mary Collinsworth sweet ripening party, while her own dying body was about to grow ripe, raped and "mine" carved into her neck.

Matt Dillon would scour the territories for miners, perhaps, strays, dry-gulchers, panners that may have had the nagging little precipitate to bring it off horrorshow.  Remember Grandma was horny all those years for Pernell Roberts, and in her later years, the edge blunted of her sanity, she would full admit the truth in any company whatsoever, as if it were as plain a fact, her thing for Adam Cartwright: Adam Cartwright and her thing.

"should'a been dead on a Sunday morning in my head...."

The raw novelty of the thing was that it had to be intricately documented, the finery of the thing recorded for posterity, to be stored in libraries, searched over years later, and published in numerous histories in the far reaches of the future.  I was just saying that I was looking at the window, not even looking out the window, but just sort of staring at the thing itself, you know, a kind of landmark of a point in time it was, and I remember at that time, Pernell Roberts wasn't being beamed around the satellites; there were fewer then, and military grade GPS hadn't been made available to the public.

Pernell Roberts would have poured-over the thing as if it were a job, but it really being just a hobby, that he took any task, however it was, as it were of a kind of monolithic importance.  I gave no permanence to the moment I was talking about, kind of floating along the timeline like the little ghost in Mario Brothers, kind of strolling about in some gigantic highway to the seaside in Alexandria, Egypt, kind of wandering.

Not lost, per se, but wandering, as was said, "not all who wander are lost".  But I might be simultaneously, and distinctively in both states, "lost" and "wandering" in perhaps senses that are unrelated, disparate states of being at once, as of having two feet for which to bestride two provinces at once, in the selfsame moment.

Of Mary's ripening, a kind of hydrosis, or something, a layer of water between her person proper and the skin section, the rind covering of her person, a kind of artificial weight induction, something of a stymie of the body mass index, Mary would begin to smell, and perhaps even draw flies.  They would need mentholatum to get near her, that or some other kind of thing, the kind of Febreze that nices up a corpse, and all the well, Matt Dillon's determined chin.

Set the Comanche and Festus to abide at the Landmark Inn while the old marshal, the big old slow-talking farmboy, pitched spleen and his bowlegged stance at whomever come wrong on the thing; a convertible sedan near the woods, and all, a kind of existential "up yours" to the whole thing, watching the west die the death of the CCCP, spending its way into oblivion, a la the end of the Cold War, but a revenge visited on the West, ya know, if ya dig.

A private army of desperate welfare moms taking on professional military combatants, and, held in reserve, an all girl army that "knows Kung Fu".

Strange thoughts assail on a Sunday night on the edge of the big woods.  Partial memories, some, co-mingled with other things, and even the sound of two different televisions contorting two different types of shows, not just two shows, but two different type of shows, ye dig?  Meanwhile, a stereo system adding a third voice, four memories, all that noise, and an Oprah quote about depression, she called it a loss of self, essentially, and she didn't much put note to it, but let the participants do both the writing and the underlining, as was her brilliant sort of way, to let them try to bring it off, because they knew their own terrain best.

A kind of doldrum in between all of that, the different sub-currents and strifes and strains of the things, and what was that--4 things, 3 sound streams, and an Oprah quote.  It was something of depression in some of the things, and somehow we even dragged in the Marshall from Dodge City, and all that, and it became as it were, greater in sum than any particular piece in and of itself put to scrutiny.

We have, as it were, a coalition of trained zombies, gun-toting, facing-off against that army of desperate welfare moms(if they don't fight, they dont get SNAP benefits), meanwhile we've transposed Adam Cartwright into Gunsmoke, and somehow, Miss Kitty is a ho, and my granny is a ho in her old age, and everybody is sort of broached of character and integrity, and the only true zombies, the zombies themselves, and Adam and Matt, for all their wooden expressions.

You would turn a cross on its side in the middle of such a skirmish, and strap Miss Kitty to that, after a brief torture session to soften her, and then light fires around Dodge.  Festus and the Comanche, back from the Landmark Inn, drinking Sasparilla and smoking two Commandante cigars.

Doldrums and Tradewinds and Horse Latitudes and so forth, none of which explained the conviction that maybe there was something amiss in that old memory of mine, something more amiss than the soup of demented television commentary from my familiars, the conviction that it was the onset of some kind of feeling; they had said so much of becoming a teenager.  They said as much about becoming an old fart, too.

Far more jarring as it were, to transpose the old Western show characters as if they were entirely interchangeable, but then Oprah and 90's Top 40 songs, an 80s Brat Pack comedy and a staid news show.

We could self-righteously call Miss Kitty a ho, but we have to at least, and its not even condescending from our seat on heavenly clouds, agree that she certainly was a pimp, a mistress, a madam, a lady of the evening.  Fret none, there is no pearl in her clamshell, and the forthright and upstanding slow-talking local constabulary will not stoop to marry her--the pretense of making one honest.