To my Platonic Valentine (the valentine which is eternal) or On Getting Carried Away

On eros

Here is what Plato said when he was pretending to be Apollodorus, who was pretending to be Socrates, who was pretending to be Diotima: "It would take divination to figure out what you mean. I can't."

On Fluency

O'Keeffe BLUE LINES 1916 Watercolor

On Pathos and Cartoon Cats

Plus, an excerpt from Ray the Cat's most recent blog (in which the ME is, naturally, Roast Beef the Cat):

RAY: Dude, I just had the mother of all pedicures. This girl Xa Bi was rubbin’ on my doggies so hard and long, I don't mind tellin' you that I closed my eyes and thought about the act for like half an hour.

ME: Well that's fine I mean I hope you did not get a nasty old tumescence though.

RAY: Like hell I didn't! Why you think I go there?

ME: To have your feet cleaned and your nails trimmed and perhaps some calluses scraped, I don't know.

RAY: Don't get me wrong, they do that. But a big part of their service is the whole fantasy angle. It's like, "Wink, nudge, you are making me hot as the devil, and don't you know it, you sweet little mystical peach."

Carson on Friday. A fragment:

...
I do not want to be a person.
I want to be unbearable.
...
There are things unbearable.
Legs alas.
Legs die.

Rocking themselves down,
crazy slow,
some ballet term for it--
fragment of foil, little
spin,

little drunk,
little do,
little oh,
alas.

A beginning.

Station, 1985.

Oddly, anaphora for euphoria. Do I need another aphorism?