"Much immersion was going down in this part of the environment; many of us were getting some hands-on experience that we hadn't bargained for, living somewhat dazed in the circumference of our blandness, giving everything for the mania to come, listing in our habits like beehive trawlers in milk, owning up to the closets and windmills and sitcoms," the TV says.
I don't understand the difference between a windmill and a sitcom. Mary says they are similar in that both are convivial. Both are convivial, she goes on, in circumstances like those in which you find yourself retching uncontrollably after the garbageman declares himself homeless. In such a situation, difficult as it may be for you, a windmill can seem quite convivial. Same with a sitcom.
Different--a different matter, Mary says, wise. The sitcom seen on the days the windmill is not seen is different there, because of that--days.
I agree with Mary on everything, though I disagree with most things in general. I agree with Mary's assessment of standard commodities and their likelihood of continuance. She is determined to believe they will continue; I am sure they will too. It is unusual for us to believe in other things that people usually believe in, such as aging. And yet we believe in those things that many believe in, such as continuance of commodity. How do we do it? Should we be doing it?
I leaf through the mad attractions in the weekend paper. Who is this playing at the farmhouse? How is his band built? When do we get to understand his many motivations, no matter how painful? When are we finally permitted to disown those fat slobs who pain us too much, who insist on their bulk, who insist we insist on their bulk, who are fat, fat brats? When?
Is this the proper venue for the band that is mentioned? Is this where we run around screaming at the days that have passed too quickly, in sing-song? Do we join the band? Do we repudiate it? Do we seem to march too quickly, or do we march too softly? Is this afternoon or is this evening? When does it seem that the most things happen?
More questions raised by the bulk of this story: How large a canvas must Miró have to develop his life into something more sordid? Is it okay to want Miró's life more sordid, or would that imply a different history, a no-no for our thinkings? Are we raised in the barn only to shoot the canary? Do we graft our battalions stark, stark onto others' battalions, or lift the embargo chord by chord?
Are we to remodel the albatross? Bankrupt the staid? Bankroll the stale? Are we to massage the elders, or are we to be massaged by them? Massage them, be massaged by them? Are we to admire boys who dance well? Are we to admire well-dancing boys? Is it often that we are allowed to be as dull as it is our intention to be? Is the answer to that "No one can tell"?
Am I a gooseneck lamp? Have I stuttered once too often?
If I read the palm of the greatest tennis star on earth, will I grow up to malign imbroglios involving lack of tennis ball, or such? Will I not?