XIII.

I notice I am thinking about books and writing lately so much. It is
an ironic circumstance resulted by so many times of writing myself,
as sHe told me to do. It is easy to do because I write what I am
thinking some thing or occurrence, what happens in my mind. Even
though I do not really know what happens in my mind, I use some words
I can find at the time.

I call it an ironic circumstance because I do not read hardly at all,
but master and the publishing office person seem believers that enough
people will read my brainplace happenstances for the publisher to
make some money, so he decided that they would.
Read what I wrote.

Master says if I write enough it will be called a 'pillow book' which
sHe says means it is something was written at night in bed. I suppose
something I write should be called a cushion book, seeing as I am
doing many writings while I am curling up on the sofa watching tv.
Or, a kitchen table book, because that's where I keep a notebook and
pencils. Eventually I have to type what I write into the computer,
but sometimes I sit on the computer chair and just write there, which
is easy too because the tv is behind the computer and I can sit and
watch it at the same time. Everything seems to have a good reason,
doesn't it? But master is always asking me whether what I am doing
has -sufficient- reason. SHe seems to find such a comment really
amusing. Sometimes I wonder whether master's brain hasn't been
rottened by a language virus.

There is also a mirror on the computer table next to the screen. I
can see the television behind that. I like to watch myself if the
programs get boring or I forget what I am writing. I usually start by
turning my face about. I like to see how my eyes look back at me from
different angles. They are blue, and the pupils, the black bit in the
middle get very much bigger when I begin to inspect myself closely. A
large shiny black round mirror reflecting again my own face framed
with an electric blue circle, having the tiniest lines of darker and
lighter blue pointing out and in like a wheel the lines looking
themselves like the riffled pages of a magazine, and around the edges
a deeper blue rim holds at bay an ocean of opal fed by tiny red canals.
Skin, the lips of my eyes, hug the contour of this tight wet perfect
fruit my eyeball the line curved like a dressmaker's bow the shape
of a sea shell an arc in the air of my cheekbones made with the
scythe of a pendulum. Black vines grow at angles from these lips
curve away cross each other and end in pointed straining tips.
The slit of the lips of my eye is at an awkward angle, the inner side
points down, the piece of flesh in the inner corner forms an arrow
pointing towards the tip of my nose via the curve of the nostril while
the outer corner ending in a tangle of eyelashes points in the opposite
direction, strains toward the eyebrow no less tangled with dark criss
crossed hairs. It looks to me that my eye is like a jewel on a cushion,
a bauble made of black sapphire, lapislazuli, opal, tiny diamonds and
veins of garnet set in a brocaded pouch of fine stuffed silk.

Jewels are admired and desired because they look like eyes, though,
not the other way round.

<-- scene XII

--> scene XIV.