I've been listening to Pierre Lunaire while reading excerpts of Kafka, Eliot, and Joyce. I feel like a cubist painting: disjointed, disturbed, and distanced (I'm "dis"ed). Don't try this at home; only trained professional Humanities experts can handle this type of sensory psych-out. It's a non-drug user's acid trip.
I think the only thing that saved my brain through that experience was that I was eating good, wholesome, American chocolate, which kept me grounded in the non-surreal world of my dining room. Having children around helps too, but the house was empty save for me and the two cats (who were no help at all); everyone else was at church. So I had no one around to break the brain-binding spell of modernist literature and unworldly music by hollering, "Mom, I need help making Paul Bunyan's dental floss!"*
~floats away on clouds of gray German poetry, giant bugs, and Hollow Men~
*More on that in a future post, provided I have returned to the real-life, everyday realm of housework, Minnesota cold, and when-is-dinner-ready?