the drift


Tuesday, September 14, 2004

parlor games with the dead intellectuals

i imagine it would be wonderful to have a dinner party hosted by my subconscious. who would it invite? what kind of parlor games would it want us to play? would it be an entertaining hostess or a withdrawn one?
i'm quite sure my subconscious would be rather cheeky and seat the later freud next to my mother on one side, and on her other side, jung. my subconscious would find it fun to bring a drag king as a dinner date, and seat him next to my father, just to see what comes or does not come of it. Likely father would not notice the contrary sex beneath the facial hair and hearty laugh. the ever observant butler would be sartre, who my subconscious will attempt to debrief afterwards, with only marginal success.
we will not play horseshoes, but rather 'pimpshoes', a game in which my guests look at each other's shoes and make character assassinations based on the state of the shoes, or guess what unsavory locales the shoes have lurked in, or otherwise uncover some secret they may tell us about the wearer. but freud will get tense when it is his turn because his shoes are boring and all the guests have fallen uncomfortably silent. so he shows his toes, eliciting a round of oo's and surprised hand clasps from the crowd, most never having seen the pale translucent feet of a deified psychoanalyst. of course, freud technically cheated but he did indeed win that round of pimpshoes.


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