Maybe it's particularly human, maybe it's particularly male, maybe it doesn't matter so much--this desire to get at a name for particularly inscrutable ticklings at the back of the brain, the front of the heart:
What is it, that feeling one might be feeling after a nice slow glass of Scotch on a lazy Saturday afternoon, sitting between the cats, thinking on how big everything feels but that it's fuzzy around the edges and soft in the middle? The song that keeps playing in the head: "House of the Rising Sun"; the word that keeps sounding: faraway.
(Smartasses who answer 'stoned' or 'drunk' will be ridiculed and then ignored.)
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3 comments:
is it sorta like the way melville and conrad write about the sea?
could be, could be.
it's teetering towards nostalgia but w/o subject or object
ooh, good question. scott might be on the right track, but the best i could do was drunk in an interesting, repeatable way. feel free to ridicule and ignore.
anyway, it seems like the kind of thing that to name it would be to reduce it, which would be a shame.
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