The Artist cheerfully greeted me this morning with, "Today is eleven, twelve, thirteen." I was staring out the window at the "wintery mix." A horrible sight upon which I blame the context of The Artist's greeting eluding me.
As a rule, when floundered by meaning,
the reaction is to make some sort of noise. In the early morning, I
can think of this noise as a limbic reaction. And under no
circumstances does the limbic system like to appear uncomprehending.