reading some, and the word of the day: eponym

An incidence of the mind's providence, reading, speed reading, and thinking at the same time; as I had, a kind of thought pattern going, something on the intellectual plane of a mood, so too did Lucian whisper to me at the entrance to my rooms.

"You look a little thin, Lucian.  Eat something."

The hoarseness of the fellow, but he wasn't emaciated or sucked-in thin, but kind of delightfully fit thin, and I he rose when I reached out to him, in greeting.  He was, perhaps, my own unction, come back to roost, if only for a few hours, maybe a whole day, or--egad--weeks on end.

Who really had the time?

My own mind was brooking a kind of pattern in response to the reading, pieces turned this way or that, and the subject, the very act, and the act the subject, and talking about it, kind of mirror glaze on the quartz as it were, a kind of crystalline mass-hysteria about the whole thing: one solitary personage reading an old book.

Neo-realism was the reason de'tre and the whole thing brooked a kind of orthodoxy bent towards something conservative, something I wondered, a criticism, certainly, but perhaps a dash of misunderstanding: to tear something down in favor of what was there long before, and in the offing, I read of the theater, Shakespeare's own, rebuilt: 1997, with a heaven mural and a hell trapdoor.

If only, perhaps, what dreamscape in which heaven is just a painted picture on a porch ceiling and hell is a very real hole in the floor: allegedly, Hamlet and Laertes, into the pit of Ophelia's interment and contorting and convulsing and pulling at each other in order to magnify, convince each other, and his own person, that he cared indeed more for the dead girl.

Lucian went over and snookered down at the community water trough; he eyed around like some bandito from the films, and I was sad to see him have fallen into such trials and circumstances, but such was life: the fire and the rain, and all, and expecting the unexpected, or not expecting even the commonplace, as of the sunny happenstance I mentioned a day prior.

"What would have been the harm in that, Bonita?"

It lifted me up, though, to see Lucian, good consort of a Philistine that he was, and it set me to rights, in a way, and I was about the postman's haul, and all that; about the way, and trying to lend a morsel to good Lucian.  "He bore me upon his back I know not how oft."

Whose lips, a gentle kiss, of friendship, from the undisciplined oval-shaped strudel of what was supposed to be a pretzel; my mind was about the reading, I suppose, in part, while my soul gave Lucian a firm hug.  I had only kind of brush the surface of the water, as it was, and had not, like Lucian, stolen a drink on the sly, but just sort of flitted on the face of the water, so much dumber even, than a common housefly, that would at least condescend to lit upon the surface for a drink.

I called to Lucian, and he tossed his head back in a hoarse whisper.

One could go mad over such redundancies: writing about writing, or a philosophy of philosophy, or a lady of the night calling on a lady of the night--but in the real world, there is a mountain named "mountain" and a river called simply "river".  One could read a book about reading a book, or even write a book about writing a book, most of which I've read is about being authors and not actually the creative process, to create something more of discourses and intercoursing about royalty checks that making words.

Hence the word of the day, that I've been saving up, like a little Roth IRA.

Word of the Day:

eponym, noun.

A real of imaginary person for whom something is named;

one whose name is the popular designation for something.