. . .

Lucy

I've been thinking.

It's not enough to be Wacky. I can be Wacky in my sleep. Just string three unconnected words together. Archangel tessaract butterfly. There. Wacky.

No, it must have an internal logic and consistancy. If you pour it into a mold, it must stay mold-shaped at least long enough to make some sort of sense or point or humor, even if it afterwards flows into some other unexpected configuration altogether. Even if it is apparant only to myself. Even if the point is look look i'm being Wacky look look, it's still a point. I think.

Or not. Maybe I'm expecting too much from the world. Maybe, in an ideal world, things wouldn't make sense, and when you stepped outside you would never know if you'd be standing on sidewalk or lime jelly salad dressing. Life would certainly be less dull.

With that in mind, I'll tell you about the dream I had last night in great detail, mentioning all the little bits and pieces that went into it, going off on deranged tangents, but not actually telling you what happened in the dream itself. I will, in fact, make a concerted effort not to tell you anything about the actual plot of the dream. After all, that would merely be descriptive. I'm trying to create Art here. This is Art. Wacky = Art. By definition. As discussed earlier. Or did we discuss it earlier? No, we hadn't gotten to the Art bit yet. I must rectify this oversight, before getting back to whatever else I was doing, which was going to be telling you about my dream. Ahem.

Wacky. Wacky is Art.

There. Now, back to the dream. Which, by the way, involved The Cane Of Ra quite directly. The Cane now seems to be an integral part of my destiny now. Even in my dreams, it goes everywhere with me. Quite astonishing. A symbol of personal flair, perhaps? An undersized phallus? Does it have actual Mystical Might associated with it? (Capitalizing random Words. It's a neat trick. Lends them Impact and Meaning. I recommend you take it up in your personal Correspondence, or perhaps I mean your Personal correspondence, or even your Personal Correspondence. No, not your Personal Correspondence, that's more properly used for telling your loved one(s) in exactly what ways you intend to abuse their poor tortured form(s) once you get home that evening. Email as foreplay. A little longer range than many of the forms thereof. I am currently engaged in foreplay with England. Someone in England, I should say. Maybe you folk know her, you form a vast network of contacts, right? Jana Stephanovsk. Not the biggest film canister in the bank vault, but hey, I'm easy. As some here can attest. If someone on this list can send me a link to a picture of her, I'd appeciate it. Cross-continental stalking ensues. End of aside.) I'm not sure I'd like that. (Everyone scrolls back up to remember what Alloni was referring to.) I mean, if I'm to be the recipient of vast Mystical Might, I'd like it to be an internal thing, y'know? Something inherent to my being, or something learned, as opposed to something given to me as a present. Why I've never liked the mystical traditions that utilize spirits and the like to cause things. Certainly, power can be gained thereby, but you're always at the mercy of the spirits, in the end. If they suddenly decide not to listen to you, and many tales tell of them doing just that, then you're up the proverbial cannon without an icepick.

Where was I? Oh, yes. My dream.

Um.

I think I've talked myself into a corner, here. I mean, I plundered and pillaged that train of thought fairly effectively, but eventually it ended, and I made the mistake of bringing the original topic back up. Since the goal of this email (look it up! it's right up there!) is specifically not to tell you anything about the plot of the dream, and once I'm on the topic, I'm more or less obliged, by the nature of communication via this medium, to continue with it for at least some little space, I'm trapped. Goldurn it. I hate it when I do this. It's a personal affront, is what it is. I take personal offense at my own failure to perform the task that I myself assigned me, and I'll have myself prosecuted for it. Prosecuted! Do I hear me! To the fullest extent of the law! Better yet, a duel! A duel to the death! Only one of me is going to walk away from this alive, and it isn't going to be me! That's right, mister, fisticuffs on horseback at dawn! Choose my second! I think, just to keep this all in the family, I'll be my second. Contrariwise, I think I will be mine.

I'll referee this, of course, since, in a very real way, it is all my fault. Ahem. Gentleman, is there any way the disagreement between the one of me can be settled without bloodshed? Not as far as I'm concerned. I'll see my heart's blood for this! Tsk, tsk, tsk. Manners, manners. Well, since my esteemed self here is too much of a coward to back down (Me bastard!), I'm afraid that I, likewise, will face the very real threat of my own death in order to see me dead. Very well. Face myself.

Both of me turn and stand back to. Walk ten paces, turn and fire. Begin! One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten FIRE!

There is a pause.

I did decide on fisticuffs on horseback, didn't I. That means I don't have any weapons on me, doesn't it. Which means there's nothing for me to fire. Damnation. And since I'm standing twenty paces apart, now, I can't even punch myself in the face, can I. Why, me sneaky little devil. I planned this, didn't I. Planned it right from the get go. Became the referee, set up the terms of the combat, everything. Why? Why did I do it? Why did I stab myself in the back like this? I have to ask? I bribed me, of course. I'm an interested bystander, and I don't want to see either of me hurt.

All right. I'll call it a draw.

Oh, yes. And my dream had a restaurant in it.