Antigone's Records - Day 12

I was flipping through Antigone's records one day. She happened to be in a rather strange mood, and our discourse seemed a bit off kilter. I might say, ambiguous. When I reached a certain point in her alphabetically organized collection, I told her not to worry - that I, unlike most people, very much enjoy pill gas hips. She whipped around and cut into my soul with an angry glare. "What are you saying about my physique?!" - "Your physique?" Confused, I went back to thumbing through her collection, and her attention went elsewhere.

Eventually, I reached a record with which I was not familiar. I picked it out, and seeking to make amends for the unwitting offense I has caused her, I brought it over to Antigone and asked her what it was. "Come, soak" was her reply. "Excuse me?" - "I just told you what it was!" Bewildered, I saw no recourse other than to return the strange record to its rightful place and carry on with our detached activities. However, as I was putting the record back in its place, Antigone asked me, "Look ahead in the collection a ways and you'll see the cane, ill boy!" - "Why would you call me that?!" - "Why would I call you what?" - "Oh... never mind..." I did my very best to ignore what I perceived to be insult, as I could not detect a malevolent tone in Antigone's voice.

Some time passed, and I again became too engrossed in her extensive assemblage to continue pondering our conversation. I began to try and sort out the records I intended to borrow, and one particularly interesting one I must have been holding away from the others enough for Antigone to take notice of my selection. She called to me from across the room, "Oh, is that her, a flank train you're holding?" - "I'm... not sure I heard you right." I, in fact, had heard her with perfect clarity. "Well, that certainly is it. A fine choice."

Once again, my love for kitschy old records overwhelmed my growing disease with my interaction with Antigone, and soon I found myself dragging another selection over to her. "Oh, that's my crampy nut lace" - "What on earth is that? Sounds like some kind of impossible fabric." - "Nope, it's just a disappointing solo effort from a respected artist." - "That... might make sense." To me, it indeed did not make sense, but I got the feeling somewhere inside my reptilian mind that it did. So i crept back to my corner.

Finally, I grew tired, and thoughts of getting in my warm bed for the evening began to rise to the top of my mind's queue. I decided to try one last time to talk to Antigone about her records. "Spry date end dregs?" I read on the cover of an album. "What sort of cryptic artist name is that?" - "Uh... I'm not sure. But that song he made about taking showers is excessively sexy." - "I'll just have to take your word for it."

With those words, I got up and departed Antigone's company. Of course, I was merely stepping into the next room, where my bed was. I was reminded of John Lennon. His album, Walls and Bridges. There always seemed to be a wall between Antigone and I. A wall separated us as we slept, and an invisible barrier seemed to trip us up every time we tried to exchange simple niceties. I put Lennon on my portable headphones. I needed him then. "Bless you," he said "wherever you are... wind-swept child on a shooting star." It was my bridge.