de-lurking

[Henry Kingman]

Greetings! I've been sitting in as we in the bicycle world say in
reference to riding along with the group without taking a turn at the
front to break the wind (as I wrote that, I found myself actually doing
so, pee-yew!) for a week, during which I have been gobsmacked (just to
de-implicate NAFTA in the -isms importation conspiracy theory) by the
voluminous, not to say billious quality and quantity of the posts (the
odor slowly dissipating like the crowd turned out of a porno theatre
after the projector suddenly breaks). Do you guys ever talk about
Pynchon's books, or is that just like, so passe?

I am about 400 pages along on that Mason-Dixon thing, with progress
mired alternately by the clouds of a wintry personal life and the usual
exigencies of non-academic life (i.e., futile toilings), yet each time I
turn the page I have an odd sensation to report. It feels as if
homuncular umpires were stretching a yard-marker chain in which each
gossamer link is, as, the tenuous connection between symbol and image,
across the surface of my retinas just below the point at which the optic
nerve attaches.

At times I feel I have my bearings straight and am "getting" it. Often
my concentration lags and I must re-cover ground afresh. Once in a
while, when the stars twinkle magically like small bubbles of soda pop
clinging to the side of a curvaceous vessel (and especially when I am in
the company of good fellows) I feel I might have stumbled upon one of
those 'ley' lines of Cherrycoke's. Snort. Estoy leyendo demasiado?