BEATRIX POTTER MASK: This pace is good. Try to keep up this pace, OK?
BPM: You’re tired today.
BPM: What’s up?
DF: Dunno. Got foal-legs again.
BPM: But why?
DF: Sleep sked’s outta whack.
BPM: Trouble concentrating?
DF: That’s more of a terminal problem. That’s chronic for me. But yes, more than normal today.
BPM: Do you feel guilty?
DF: Do you want to just keep reformulating things I’m thinking as verbal questions? Would that be helpful?
BPM: You know I’m capable of returning whatever nastiness you want to throw my way with terrible force, right?
DF: Yeah. Color me cowed.
BPM: So why are we here?
DF: You invited me.
BPM: I invited you to come see me “whenever the summer shit-sky gets bright enough to see.” Which is another way of saying whenever you feel ready. My question is: why do you feel ready today?
DF: I’m not ready today. I’ll never be ready. The chain of days makes a necklace for God to wear; each day is a little bead. I thought the necklace could use a little variety, that meeting up with you might give it some color. A pink candy skull on a string of beads. Tomorrow I’ll go back to beads.
BPM: Sounds like a pretty cool necklace.
DF: For the record, lemme state that you’re not a therapist, and I’m not your patient.
BPM: Allow me to gesture down to the roiling pink-shit ocean we’re hovering above. I don’t think anyone could mistake this for an analyst’s office.
DF: What about the waiting room, then? What’s that about?
BPM: That’s your house.
DF: Can we slow down?
BPM: No. This is a good pace. Keep going.
DF: I’m a pale pink horse and you’re my dark rider.
BPM: Why do you want to buck me?
DF: Pale pink horses always buck their dark riders.
BPM: That’s not categorically true. What of your obsession with rigor?
DF: Rigor means death, but it also means precision.
BPM: How precise is death?
DF: I want to say ‘precisely,’ but that doesn’t make any sense. I don’t feel very precise.
BPM: That’s my fault. It’s also because you’re still alive. You’ll only experience total precision and rigor when you’re dead.
DF: Should I be looking forward to death?
BPM: No more than you should be looking forward to dinner.
DF: I’m usually hugely looking forward to dinner. From the moment I wake up until I’m lying in bed waiting for sleep, I’m hugely looking forward to dinner. Even as I’m eating it, even as I’m contemplating my smeared and empty plate.
BPM: You’re a drama queen. You need to sit quietly, keeping this good steady pace.
DF: I need to stop.
DF: Is there another ocean we could hover over? Something more East Coasty?
BPM: Double-frog, California is an empanada stuffed with savory, ground-up chunks of the East Coast. Your psychic East-West beef is a bad fiction.
DF: I feel self-conscious hovering above this ocean.
BPM: That’s mostly my fault. You’d feel something like that hovering above every ocean. Let’s stay with this one and figure out how you feel.
DF: I’ll tell you how I feel.
BPM: And now you’re daring us to say nothing.
DF: Who do you think influences me more: me, or you?
BPM: I know how a person can influence himself.
DF: Can we go under this ocean?
BPM: We’d have to fuck a thousand pink shit-cubes of ocean life to do that.
DF: I want to do that. I’m the double-frog. I’ve got huge integrity. I’m internally consistent no matter how fucked and fractured I feel. E.g. fucked fracturedness can be its own kind of consistency.
BPM: You know it’s OK for us to smoke weed here, right? It’s not like that urinal cake of a sun is a smoke detector, Doublefrog.