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Adding a Certain Ghostlike Hum to Your Inner Life.

 A sleeping tabby is the easiest way to add stripes to a living
room. Scylla and Charybdis, Heloise and Abelard, the gusting breeze and
the meter reader's fabulous red hair: choose only one duet. My son
asks, "Would you rather be the president's bodyguard or a rare
Chinese custard eaten by your one true love?" Unless you've
attended medical school, never massage the brain directly. Fine, lie
down in your garden naked as Adam, as long as you rise up wise as Eve.
Cultivate paradox, like the brooding diarist who doubts the world until
 she writes it down, then doubts the world because
she writes it down. If supernal beauty will not hold still, chill in the
fridge for twenty minutes, then snap its picture. (More effective for a
praying mantis on your porch than northern lights over Saskatchewan.)
Neglect not Archimedes. Neglect not interviews with a mirror that
doubles as a pond of hungry fish. Neglect not serendipitous gifts, as
when a crying child finds a broken globe at the dump and leaves wearing
Tierra del Fuego as a helmet. In this waiting room called planet Earth,
we are all secretaries of the ineffable. Testurcian monks knew that if
you play a seventh and an eleventh, your ear will catch a distant third
tone that isn't there. If an ant crosses your kitchen table, give
her a name, then carry her into the sun on a dirty fork. 
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Author:Larsen, Lance
Publication:Prairie Schooner
Article Type:Poem
Date:Mar 22, 2011
Words:281
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