I've been getting memos from the world of dreams. I file them all under "D." "D" is for "Dreams, World of." I always dance with fancy, it's just something I do. Lately, though, I've been dancing alone with fancy dancing alone nearby, always trying to engage me as I act aloof. There's a subtle difference. From a distance you might not be able to tell, but the administrative assistant for the King of Dreams notices, and he (he being the administrative assistant, not the King, you sexist) sends me memos worded strongly. "We have been most generous with you in the past, Scott," he says. "We expect you to hold up your end of the bargain." I could claim not to know what they want, but it's not true. They don't write contracts. The terms are implied, but they're very clearly implied. No one can claim not to understand. I admit this, and I'll pay my debt to whim, but I'm dancing to the tune of reality sometimes these days. It's a jerky dance, not as pretty, but we owe debts about which fancy couldn't dream, debts that dreams would not fancy. Would that we could pay Peter to rob Paul, or vice versa, but everyone watches closely and keeps immaculate books. So we dance. What else can we do? We dance.
Wisdom from funny sources: Steven Wright claims to be a peripheral visionary. Zach Galifianakis says he's addicted to cold turkey. Mitch Hedberg told a race car driver, "Man, you must really like Tide." If any of these men started a religion I would not join and I would not believe but I would attend regularly.
The difference between truth and fact is not subtle if you think about it. Fiction, if it's good, is truth without facts. News reporting? Facts without truth. The two are hardly even related. Then there are lies. Just because they didn't really happen doesn't mean they aren't true. True? I don't know.
Hello, friends. Tell me what's happening, won't you?
Love.
