The Love Shuttle

Five thirty.

I wish I could impose more sense on life, but some things refuse to fit into patterns. Freud believed he had it all figured out with his theory of the unconscious, full of sex and aggression. But paranoia is just paranoia, and cognitive therapy can help with this problem. Nobody can read each other’s mind; clairvoyance is a hokey and bogus idea. And a god who always spies on you is just a Big Brother to control your behavior… The sky appears gray this morning as the sun struggles up behind the clouds.

Six forty. I paused to watch an airline jet cruise eastward from my vantage point on the sidewalk. Now I fancy it was a rocket-ship to Venus, a kind of futuristic Love Boat making another run. Science fiction does things to your imagination. The espresso hut was lit up like a Christmas tree. Somehow my mind summoned old Rush logos on their album covers, and I thought of the day and night difference in sound quality between 2112 and Permanent Waves and Moving Pictures— such big strides over four years… The gray of Lenore’s house looks better on a cloudy day. At nine o’clock the taxi is coming to take me to my visit with Heidi. In the meantime I’m waiting for my friend’s email to come. I feel like a scatterbrain right now.

Seven thirty. Forget it. 

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