Shawn Huelle

untitled (restless)

Where does the time go? Why do we ask ourselves that question?

I am lost in Mason & Dixon by Thomas Pynchon. I am currently, I think, in the midst of a story about an automatonic duck that can digest food and shit it out, but since I haven't picked the book up in about a week, I don't know; it might have shifted without me.

I might open it back up and find myself reading a long treatise on plumb lines or the horrors of colonial-American slavery, maybe a Keystone Cops inspired chase scene, perhaps further conspiracy theories about the Jesuits or Clive of India.

My daughter has entered a phase of sleeping restlessly. We think she's maybe leveling-up in terms of dreaming (if nightmares count as an upward motion within the levels).

There are levels? Of course there are.

The other night, I dreamt I was visiting a former place of employment for the first time since no longer being employed there. Everything was falling apart. It was a complete mess. I should have at least felt schadenfreude, but instead I still felt responsible. It was a nightmare.