Watching the TV on the set screen. As if watching the TV of it made sense so. As a boy, small—eight or nine get the set screen. Switch to how to know what’s on when it’s eight or nine back those days. Well there it was so. My first Frankenstein. Watched only in slices ‘cause. Listening eh? Thought to ask ‘cause—no matter. The bad man in the big suit raging all no so turn the knob and look left. There, there; must be something else to do but child-calming down like happened in those ages. Yes, yes turn the knob to it again the the—scene faded up white to some countryside calm. It is TV you know. And TV must be s’posed to be at least good. And not at all bad. Here in the parental womb-house most eights or nines live in and—accept—faded white some countryside then some some frighteningly frightening bellowing great big somebody no no. The monster! Turn the knob and look left. Not thinking just knowing that what’s in that box stays. In the big hot white kitcheney hotbox the food’s pulled out from by Mom most days in those big fat quilty gay flowered hot gloves—the shot hot stays raging big suit in the box of a man the food stays in the TV hot box where from the food comes out up on the table and—just like that we eat so. Again, child-calming—the largest component of being the fading back away memory there’s—turn the knob and there the big man’s in a lab all shadows with a jerky jangling puppetlike too-skinny raving mad doctorman with eyes much too large and too white and the other side of the big man’s a dwarfish gnomon of a shortstaff with a bunched up back and a beard of a wackygrin and the thunderstrike’s too much and—off flick the picture tube knob over leftwise and get up and go that way to the case of low books which you were told your—brother the man out some number of yearsies had built-on down to earth here in the cool life living frontroom had books to pull and—the first word of the title’s not yet for an eight nine years’ child so, the mammaries being—faded down doh—back to the TV and the knobtwist pulls visible a stream. There’s the monster! Every age it seemed knew what a stream was when the correct age was reached to know what a stream is and a child—with a flower. And the man. Takes the flower. And the picture—fades back away to a soupcan and since it is a universal truth that standing by a stream long and hard enough, and; the critical thing being that the stream must be watched on a TV; the stream will in time fall back becoming a soupcan—there’s the monster. A woman scrubbing a tub in partnership with a bald goldringed genieman—a Dodge car coming fast so—there’s the monster. Switch away before flattened-down. No one has ever explained anything at all to this child. Death has no meaning either as a word or an experience or possibly a thing, like—a lamp is called a lamp and death is death but what if a lamp got called death and death got called a lamp what is what if but, anyhoot. Back to the knob-click. People dressed like shadowy hoboes plunging herdlike with forked farmspears and firesticks waving through a street that’s the same over and over again as it flows by and they got, thank God—they got. They got the big man monster good. In fire. Fire burned the whole show away and. Sometime later that day someone said wash your hands for dinner—with soap! I’ll show them I will. What I saw made me braver’n shit—so I didn’t. See. They got the big man black suit monster good. Taught all of us so can we. As a matter of fact, not just can. As a matter of fact, must. Must can. Can must. Must can can must can. Must can can must can must can. Brother the man out some number of yearsies had built-on down to earth here in the cool life living frontroom had books to pull and—the first word of the title’s not yet for an eight nine years’ child so some passby of time enough it loaded up with heavy blue word by word from the bone of a cyclopedia book collection racked out three foot long. They got pulled when the proper age got reached. Proper being determined by ability to read. Proper not being defined by appropriate to an age-group. The word. There’s one. There’s another. There’s more and there’s many and the flow in as the beachwaves come. Like living comes at you, later the child would know. But. Must can. Can must. Must can can must can. Must can can must can must can. This word jugg. Must can. Can must. Must can can must can. Must can can must can must can. This word’s—juggernau. Must can. Can must. Must can can must can. Must can can must can must can. This word’s Juggernaut. A great wagon much like a big man monster raving.
A great crushing wagon rolled out through crowds of revelers. People-revelers dressed like shadowy hoboes gone after that big black suited man monster plunging herdlike surging up against the Juggernaut with forked farmspears and firesticks meant for the big man monster raving riding the juggernaut wagon eh waving through a street that’s the same over and over again yelling except more people-revelers surge tight around eh as it flows by waving through a street that’s the same over and over again yelling and screaming except more and more people-revelers surge tight around eh as it flows by waving through a street that’s the same over and over again yelling and screaming and ranting and raving and except too many people-revelers surge tight around eh—it cannot flow. They are too tight but. The big man monster snatches the wheel and drives forward nonetheless and many are crushed. Crushed to death. Red everyplace. Under the juggernaut. Under the juggernaut. Red every witcha-way. Under the under the under the—slam the blue book tight snap off the input TV blue books living room or world all around it is all the same the same—when nobody bothers to teach the child different. There are all kinds of jungles and wildernesses for wolf-children to be.