A journey of a thousand miles begins
with the unloading of a lot
‑We
must leave.
‑We
must leave today.
‑We
have taken care of the pets.
-Of
the dog, the cats, the turtle, the mice.
-We
will be as ones born anew.
‑The
food we bought this week, the PVR I bought last month.
‑The
others will find out about our departure soon enough.
‑The
Christmas presents, the birthday presents.
‑I
have this map in my head that outlines the first steps we will be taking.
‑Books,
newspapers, LPs, CDs, framed Mondrian prints from MOMA, greeting cards.
‑We'll
be improvising after we've exhausted the map in my head.
‑Sociocide.
‑We'll
be improvising in just a couple minutes. I know we agreed.
‑We've
taken care of our heirlooms, our memorabilia, and our souvenirs.
‑I'm
feeling cleaner already.
‑The
time to leave is drawing near.
‑Language
will be useless where we are going.
‑Everything
human shall burn down to ash.
‑Animal too.
‑The dog, the cats, the turtle,
the mice.
‑With
this journey we are re-beginning what we've exhausted.
‑With
this journey we hope to be allowed to experience a portion of a second which is
not thoroughly ambiguous, don't we?
*
Don't
say emphatically we should think of the end every single day. Some weeks can
pass without the idea. We're not all Baptists.
Marie
said to him: "Please to meet you. I'm Suzie."
He
came in and sat down on the bed and put his grey hat on the bedside table. We
wiped his clean forehead. He said: "Sorry, I've never done this
before."
Marie
said: "That's okay, hon. Do you want me to say it's my first time
too?"
"No,
no." He looked around the room. "Nice place. Are you always
here?"
"No.
I move around every day I'm working. Make yourself comfortable. Should I take
off my clothes?"
He
quietly said: "Yes."
Marie
took off her clothes neither quickly nor slowly. She stood there. "Do you
want to get undressed?"
He
took off everything except for his underwear. It was a start.
Marie
sat down beside him and started to touch him. "Relax."
"I'm
relaxing."
But
he wasn't relaxed enough. Something else was needed.
"You
thirsty?" she asked.
"I
hear a baby crying."
"It
must be in the next room. Ignore it."
He
suddenly relaxed. The rest of the moves were his.
The
fetishes men have, thought Marie.
*
Today
I saw a boulder in dirt.
If
I'd straddled the boulder, my hands and feet would not be able to touch dirt
simultaneously.
I
didn't straddle the boulder to find out, but I knew.
A
long time ago the dirt created a flat field for me to see today, and the dirt
had moved to somnolently surround the boulder.
Where
the boulder touched the dirt: who knows how vast it was under the flat?: where the boulder touched the dirt, dirt became stone and
stone became dirt. Or so I suppose: I wasn't there personally.
If
boulders could talk, I would have asked some Wordsworth-like questions in the
hopes of getting a response: since boulders cannot talk, instead we stayed
silently together.
The
dirt, on the other hand, was wise. It envied the boulder. How permanent, thought the dirt, is the boulder! I am ever-changing, I am protean, but the boulder is
ever obviously here!
Together
we envied the boulder that our minds were pre-destined to protect.
Today
a boulder in dirt did not even not see me looking at
it. The dirt did not even not receive any attention
either.
The
dirt and I envied the boulder's literacy.
*
They
call it.... They call it the Coriolis effect.
Do
they now.
Yes,
they do. It has to do with how things spin when they're on a spinning thing.
Yeah, so what. Barkeep!
This
Earth has two hemispheres, right?
At least two.
Northern and southern.
Eastern and western.
I'm
talking about northern and southern here.
Why
is it you can go west forever but not south forever?
Are
you going to listen to me?
Okay,
what?
Things
go the other way in the southern hemisphere.
Things
like what?
Water in toilets.
So
what?
Let
me finish. Cars on roads.
They
go backwards?
Well
that's crazy.
They
do, they do; only they don't know it.
They
think....
They
got left and right backwards down there.
Wow.
Different meanings?
Yeah,
only they don't know it.
Do
they think we're wrong too?
Absolutely. Maybe. Who
knows?
Shouldn't
they go backwards sometimes?
They
do. Their plays run backwards too. I saw Coriolanus down there.
I
was just reading about that play.
A Coriolis Coriolanus. They did it all backwards.
Good
and evil reversed.
How's
that?
Descended
from convicts, you know.
*
Screen
with stock prices sliding up on left, man describing merger, swap, Archduke,
Screen
of overhead of close-up of fondue stirring for nine-courses and nine people
(guffawing nearby) and she opens the oven:
Screen
with panthers and jaguars and how they kill compared, tender ironic comparisons
asserted with talk that never seems to end: pop-up coming up later
Screen
with wah-wah guitar and a cock plunging piston into a cunt CUT TO meanwhile on
other couch tongue flicking clit and sucking: come now
Screen
with bright cartoon rabbit planning a picnic with weather reports and a
newspaper and cooking and basket-stuffing with celery: frantic violas pulling
their bows
Screen
and now the weather starting with
Владивосток,
Артем,
Уссурийск, and
Веселый Яр, with high
pressure abutting on low pressure, moisture: down from the mountains
Screen
with sincere sneers wrinkled on ravaged visages montaged shotguns rebels rock
and roll blustering hammers in brightest colours surrender: we are the fucking
future
Screen
with black like perfect black, silent and inert, here: : : : : : : : : : : get
me out of here
*
He was serious
She was goading Nik, to turn the evening into a
fight. He told her:
"Look, I'm not going to get in a fight with
you. I'm serious."
They went back to their hotel room.
She lay on the bed and he sat in a chair. He
turned on the television.
The television was showing Batman fighting against some Thing. The
Thing was getting the upper hand. The action
would inevitably reverse.
He looked over to her, laying
on the bed. She was using her tablet
computer to play a game or read or maybe she was
messaging.
He changed the channel. Superman was battling
against the same Thing.
Superman had the upper hand. The action would
reverse.
He looked over to her. Some strangers had
arrived; two men and a
woman. He arose from his chair to get a closer
look. One man was
sitting on the bed at her feet. He was naked,
with a shirt draped over
an erection, whilst she, likewise naked, was
covering her naked
pudenda likewise with a shirt.
"I see what you're trying to pull,"
Nik said to her. With that, he
retired to the bathroom to sleep. He was
serious.
*
At
dinner with my mother, two of my adult siblings with children and husband or
wife, I started to talk about something I had noticed about family disputes,
but I didn't get further than: "Have you‑Anyone noticed‑You
know" because my brother was talking about what he saw in
I
tried again to say that maybe adult sibling disputes are so violent and
insoluble because we are all carrying around these false images, primordial
images, infantile images, but I didn't get further than: "Isn't it‑Don't
you‑Can we" because my sister was shoving around snapshots and
smartphones of their new kitten.
So
I put up my hand thinking I should tell them that children have characters that
are not related to their sibling relations even though in childhood they seem
that way, not getting further than: "Let me‑Isn't it‑When
we" because my mother was talking sarcastically about her childhood.
My
mind moved on, with something to say, about how one's character emerges from
the family chrysalis and naturally comes into conflict with relatives with whom
one feels a sentimental kinship, saying: "When we‑There's something‑How
about" but all three were talking about a baseball game.
It
went on.
*
Learning to Cry
in fictional dictionaries
One
cry, dish detergent, water, freezer, acrylic floor wax, white paint, silver
amalgam, glue, local newspaper, gypsum plaster, plywood, black paint, linoleum,
steel plates, screws, screwdriver, force, desert, shovel, housing materials,
chromosomes, parsley
Mix
detergent and water in
Capture
a cry in a soap bubble.
Freeze
the soap bubble.
Spray
the bubble with acrylic floor wax and let dry.
Spray
the bubble with flat white paint.
Spray
the bubble with silver amalgam.
Mix
glue and water in 1:6 proportion to thickly papier-mâché the bubble with local
newspaper.
Mix
plaster of Paris (i.e. gypsum plaster) and coat and form the mass into a cube
to a thickness of one inch deep at least.
Encase
the whole inside a well-bevelled perfectly square plywood cube.
Spray
the cube with flat black paint.
Glue
squares of linoleum to the painted plywood.
Screw
plates of steel to the cube.
Take
one desert.
Bury
the cube one mile down using a shovel.
Build
a house near the hole you dug.
Find
a person to mate with and live in the house.
Raise
children, raise grandchildren, build cities and nations.
Wait
for a million years.
Sprinkle
with parsley.
Enjoy!
*
I
saw the captains gathered at the shore near their four ships. They were looking
at some big sheet of vellum at their feet. Ah, I figured. There's going to be
another raiding party somewhere across the sea.
My
mother said: "Hrfivr, come."
"I
think there's going to be another raid."
"Be
that as it may, your tutor is looking for you."
I
went into the hut. Shackles rattled. It was my tutor M'Gregor rattling his
shackles.
"Have
you been studying your Latin?"
"I
have."
Later,
the sun reached four. My lesson was over. M'Gregor rattled away and I went
outside.
The
boats were loading nicely. My father was among the raiders. He waved at me and
I waved back. He came over and called for his wife.
"Try
not to scorch your face this time," she said.
He
laughed. "It's worth it to scare the animals from their shacks."
They
kissed. "In three weeks, you'll have another servant girl. I
promise."
"Be
careful. Watch the crows. Stay away from the crows."
"Tales. I'll bring you some feathers."
He
boarded the ship and they were off.
None
of them ever came back, and a year later we starved to death.
*
OCCUPATIONS DAY ADDRESS
As my old grandpap used to say:
"If you can't put it in a chart, it ain't worth a damn." He was a farmer.
As
his grandson, I have taken his words to heart. I have risen to my personal
career pinnacle, inasmuch as I am now the Executive Editor of the Most Wanted
List as published under the imprimatur of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
It hasn't gone to my head.
Here's some photocopies. Pass them around.
As
you can see, there's only ten people on the page. But
realize this is only the tip of the iceberg as they say. My complete chart, as
it happens, contains information concerning millions and millions and millions
of people. Perhaps one of you is on it. Just kidding! Juveniles are handled by
a separate department.
Winnowing
them down to just ten is a constantly consuming task, you understand, which
requires both heuristic analyses of demographic stratification and a healthy
spooge of good ol' Yankee intuition. Much like farming.
On
a lighter note during this Occupations Day, reflect on the fact that how you
choose to spend your life is unbelievably important, and if you choose wrongly
you're damned.
*
The ANGEL
appeared again to say OH ASTREOTH in your current form how are
you occluded so? O how can you sit there, my ANGEL, and idle be when your
PERCEPTION fundamental drives it on, this creation, without end, while idly you
sit and futz about instead of jumping up and down like a Deacon in a southern
black church? And he said: I am too tired to jump, I am weak from the week, I 'd sleep if sleep I could. And the ANGEL said: Ay there 's a why you cannot sleep and the why you know for I
am beating my wings and blustering you to keep you wake, for there 's a job for
you to do. And he said: Why do I deserve this agony, this focus on my soul,
there 's billions others here I know, so
why to me do you my ANGEL pick on me? The ANGEL said: I pick on all all the time
and all know that I do! I call them all all the time but none know so as you do
how to speak. And he said: How should I speak? and the
ANGEL said: Speak of this.
*
In the House of the Blues
Dozens
or hundreds pass by this house every day. Although it's easily reasoned that
only a fraction look at it, not a single soul is unaffected by it, for they all
to the man do find themselves infected with thoughts of death, illness, and
back door men real or imagined.
I
watch them from the upstairs front bay window; I see them shiver and stop; I
imagine I can hear their thoughts as they think: Damn. My heart's been kicked
around like a broke dick dog.
In
silence I leave the window to go stare at the unmade bed in the room with the
blood red curtains, I can see the vibrations of the blues coming from the
middle of the mattress where the stains are, and I can hear a voice not unlike
mine own saying: Why baby why?
And
still they walk on by, and shudder, and halt.
I
can burn it all down. I can water the ashes with my free-flowing tears. I can
purify my land with the fire that forgets. I can make the street safe again for
natural-born fools, and the body in the basement won't mind none.
*
Pastural Reflexions
There
wasn't much use to the mare any more. She's had more than her fair share of
foals, five in fact. She wasn't much to ride on neither, seeing as she'd gotten
so slow since summertime had passed into fall. So spring had come again, and
the pasture was getting hairy, so they figured it was time for her final
retirement.
Buck
took her reins and the old gal followed him forth into the field. She took a
look back at the barn, thinking. In the farthest of the field he took off her
leathers for the last time and hooked them hand at hip. She looked at him‑her
name was Betty‑and whinnied once. Buck started back to the barn and she
stood there quietly looking. She shook her head, feeling freed from the straps
and such.
She
smelled the ground and felt the pains in her shoulders. She knew she could
still run, maybe not so fast any more, but she didn't feel like running. Her
ideas were all fuzzed up in her big head. Something was definitely missing. She
turned around to look at the trees she used to sleep under. She walked over to
them.
*
His
scabs were complaining. Four days after his bicycle accident, they demanded his
attention. The one at his elbow was the most demanding one. It was the Lady
Gaga of scabs.
"Pick
me, pick me!" it cried. He had no choice but to look at it. It had a thin
angelic halo of dried pus. The centre was meaty and maroon. He put his
fingernail two millimetres under one edge.
"Hey!"
cried his knee's boss-as-Springsteen scab. "What about me? Pick me, pick
me!"
He
gently took his nail away from his elbow and pondered his knee which was a
giant continent of a scab surrounded by peninsulas and archipelagos.
"Sorry, knee scab. I don't think you're ripe enough yet."
"Awwww!"
cried the continent.
He
returned his nail to his elbow, where the scab was crying, "Give it to me!
Pick me!" He pulled up an edge, and the scab squealed in exquisite pain.
Blood seeped into the crevice as his clingy basal layer exposed itself for what
it was. "Ahhhh!" cried the scab as it finally broke free
climactically.
The
scab, satisfied, was quiescent in death. The wound it had left behind was
hardening into a newborn scar. Lux Aeterna.
*
Jan
swept into the restaurant and took up her regular table after easily evicting
some little man. She called for service. "I want music," she said.
"Live music."
The
maître made some calls and the band was there in five. They tuned up then
rocked out.
Jan
cried: "No, no, no! I meant ... a Carpenters
cover band!"
A
couple phone calls later and the rockers were replaced by electric piano,
acoustic guitar, and thin girl.
The
maître asked, "And what shall I serve you this evening, madame?"
"I'd
like to start with mussels, then chicken breast picante, maybe some pork ribs
in a West Texas sauce, carrots and bacon, and a baked potato. Then I'll
order."
Dishes
arrived and arrayed. "Hey!" she shouted. "Get Mark here for me!
Get Mark and his tongue!"
Mark
got hurried into the restaurant and sat across from her.
"Hello,
Mark," she said. "I've decided I want your tongue in me."
Mark
got off his chair and down on his knees.
"Not here, silly! Later!"
He
returned to his chair.
Jan
started coughing, then choking. There was a soup-bone stuck in her throat. She
keeled over, dead.
Someone
somewhere must have been keeping score.
*
On First Looking into Lindgren's Pippi
My
interest, piqued by a newspaper article, did not wane before I decided this
Pippi Longstocking was a character into which I need peer. And so, at 52 years
of age, I have begun the reading of the chapbooks. She has of course been
someone of whom I've known for my entire life; I think my sister read some of
the books way back when. But for me it must have been sissy stuff. I must have
figured there were far too few skeletons and monsters involved. And so it had
taken me 45 or so years to get around to these thin volumes in their original translations
as published by Penguin Puffin (though originally published by Viking,
co-incidentally the publishers of the last book I read, which was James Joyce's
critical writings).
But
how I look and read and find that my life has been shaped by this character
without my knowledge, a likeness that starts with very red hair and very many
freckles and proceeding on to a rebellious spirit that treats nonsense as
sense! To respond to people who thought: "Look, a boy Pippi!" with:
"Why so surprised? Who are you?"
*
SHOELESS JACK
Jack
was created with big feet that constantly bled.
Wherever
Jack would go, he would leave bloody footprints everywhere. His custodians
couldn't do a thing about this. "He's who he is," they reasoned.
"We shouldn't interfere with nature's ways."
Everyone
could tell where Jack had passed by because he felt bloody footprints
everywhere. The footprints nearest his home were stacked eight or nine high.
Have
I mentioned that no amount of scrubbing could remove Jack's bloody footprints?
If I haven't, I apologize.
His
purview expanded as he grew up, matured, and became an adult. His big bloody
footprints became known on sight far and wide. Everyone said: "Jack's been
here again. There's another footprint. O nature!"
Years
passed, then it became estimated that the majority of the earth's surface was
covered with Jack's bloody footprints. The event horizon had been passed, and
all because of nature!
Finally
Jack's bloody footprints were everywhere, and you know what? Nothing could grow
anymore, and the people found themselves starved of all forms of sustenance.
Thus
it is as easy to laugh as it is to recognize that all could have been avoided
if only someone had given the devil his shoes.
*
The
queue stretched around the block. Some wag said that each person was at the
start of the queue and at the end of the queue simultaneously, and no-one had
the will to step out of the queue to prove or disprove the wag's hypothesis.
How
long had they been waiting? No-one in line could recall life before the queue
although there must have been such a time seeing as they all had learned
language; though it was possible they had never learned language at all.
One
said: We have the most wonderful queue in history.
Another
said: No-one could possibly beat us re our skills in queuing.
Many
years passed, during which the queue scarcely moved. This is not a parable.
A
food truck drove up and parked. The driver leaned out of the window and
shouted: Sorry for the delay. The queue disassembled, leaving some to wonder why,
mysteriously, they had formed a queue.
Sausage
on a bun was the order of the day, and three dollars apiece was the price.
After
having eaten, all the people went elsewhere. They had things to do, though they
knew nothing would ever top the experience they'd had in the queue.
*
She told me:
"Remember that, even if you forget everything else. Remember that one
little bit. Let the mountains fall into the sea, let the clouds tip the sky
aside, and let meteors destroy whole continents, but remember that one little
bit. Even if nothing else continues to exist, including most of you, remember
that. I said it clearly, so I think you must have understood. Put on the second
tier all your books, all your operas, all your plays; put on the third tier
your ephemeral newspapers and contingent journals; put on the fourth tier your
television and your radio: put all these below that which I have told you. If
you are so forced, depart from your family and depart from your friends, burn
your home, kill your animals, before you forget what I have told you, for what
I have told you is of such an importance that all else is derivative of it.
Prior truths can be inferred but not derived, so my precise formulation, which
I am giving to you and you alone, is worth more than
the universe itself. Do not forget it. Never forget it. Keep it first and
foremost in your mind."
*
When
I accidentally notice the truth, and get depressed about it, I fool myself into thinking a clear line is best.
Music
starts. It's 'The Great Pretender' by the Platters. I turn it off. I put on
underwear, a t-shirt, and slippers. I go down to a basement. I pick up a front
section of a newspaper. I sit on a toilet, smoke a cigarette, and read. I go
into a shower. I make a sandwich in a kitchen. I wrap it in newspaper and take
it upstairs where I put it in a backpack. I turn on a computer. I go further
upstairs and dress in clothes. I go to the computer I turned on and read a blog
or two. I put on shoes and open a door and go through and close it. I walk down
a long street and I smoke a cigarette. I get to another street that runs
perpendicular and I wait for a streetcar. I get on. I read a book. I get off
the streetcar. I go into a coffee shop. I order a coffee and a bagel. I walk to
another building and I go into it and I go up.
When
I accidentally notice the truth, and get depressed about it, I fool myself into thinking a clear line is best.
I
work and I get paid for the work. I get paid. I work for a while. Somewhere
there's money coming to me. I work for more money. I do some more work. I work
some more. I go outside for a cigarette, and I'm still getting paid. I go back
to work and earn more money. The money will buy food and shelter. I work more.
I make more money. I do some more work. Money comes to me just like that.
I
stop working. I find a place on a ninth floor to eat the sandwich I unfold from
newspaper. I read a magazine. I go outside and smoke a cigarette.
I
go inside and work some more. I make more money. It'll go towards shelter and
food. I do more work and I earn more money. I make money. I make some more
money. I go outside for a cigarette and earn money doing that. I go back inside
to make more money. I work some more to make more money. I do some more work.
When
I accidentally notice the truth, and get depressed about it, I fool myself into thinking a clear line is best.
I
watch a clock to know when to stop working. I stop working and I put on a coat
(if I brought one) and go down an elevator. I go onto a street and find a streetcar.
Some time later, I get off the streetcar. I walk down a street and I come to my
house. I make a meal with a woman and we eat the meal. We sit on a couch and
watch a box that's showing us something amusing. I go to another room
occasionally to smoke a cigarette. When a clock tells us it's between ten and
eleven, the woman prepares for sleep while I go to a computer to play a
computer game and listen to a recording of music. After an hour or so I go
upstairs to a bed and I lie down. I try to not let certain ideas enter my head,
but certain ideas enter my head anyway. Finally, just before I fall asleep, I
find myself hoping I will wake up the next morning transformed into a tiny
insect.
*
There was a
terrible sense to it, this dream he'd had about Jacob Boehme. What could it
possibly mean to have dreamed of Jacob Boehme? It's not every day that someone
dreams about Jacob Boehme. There was a terrible sense to it too. What could it
have meant?
So he called
up Wikipedia, at 94-547-3342.
"You've
got to help me, Wikipedia," he said. "I dreamed about Jacob Boehme,
and I don't know why."
"Hmmm,"
said Wikipedia. "He was a German philosopher, a Christian mystic, and a
Lutheran Protestant theologian, considered an original thinker by many of his
contemporaries."
"That's
all wonderful to hear, Wikipedia, but I'm talking about what he means in
dreams."
"Well,
dream interpretation is about assigning meaning to dreams."
"I know
that. It's ob-vi-ous."
"Okay,
Mr. Demander. Dreaming about philosophy means you're concerned about
fundamental meanings."
"Duh-duh-duh-duh. What do you think this phone call is
about?"
"Don't be
like that. I'm only trying to help."
"Fine. Help. What does it mean?"
"Oh, look
at the time. I have to be going."
"Where?"
"Elsewhere."
"You're
giving up?"
"You know
everything already."
"How do
you know that?"
"That
information is classified."
"How can
it be classified?"
Wikipedia hung
up.
*
Magnolia
trees are blooming.
Matt
and Patt are walking across the prison grounds. They do not notice the magnolia
trees, and I should not have mentioned them.
Matt
says: Maybe things are better in
Patt
says: Let's go check out
They
get on a prison plane and fly to the prison of France,
Matt
says: What should we go now?
Patt
says: Maybe there's a quality cathedral we can find.
They
find a prison cathedral and go in. A Mass is happening. There's always a Mass
happening. The Mass is super-fun and a pleasant distraction. For a moment Matt
forgets he's in a prison. Patt never forgets. After all, Patt built the prison.
Matt
says: Where to next?
Patt
says: How about the moon?
They
get onto a prison rocket and land on the moon. It's barren. Matt thinks about
the prison. Why is it so big? Where are the walls? Is there anyone outside the
prison?
Matt
says: Why did you build this prison like this?
Patt
says: Do you naïvely think
I had a choice in any of this? Have you understood nothing?
*
Down
in the cellar we were playing with knives when the signal from the Queen came
over the government radio. She used a German word, but she pronounced it
incorrectly by failing to pronounce the terminal e, and that was the signal.
We
fired up our computers and connected to our Internet service providers. The
bandwidth was strong: our enemies were being caught unawares.
Through
Facebook, through Reddit, through Twitter, through blogs, we spread our message
far and wide that the time had come to take back governance.
We
jammed Parliament's channels with document requests built from the
bit-heaviness of the heaviest of David Bowie videos. Soon they were paralysed
and at our mercy.
The
government radio began transmitting that which we had waited centuries for: the
familiar dot dot dot dash dash dash dot dot dot of an unconditional surrender.
We
climbed out onto the street and headed for the
Queen
Elizabeth II came over. We gave her the Symbols and she thanked us and we
bowed.
Our
coup had been successful.
*
She
said: "Put your hand here." She put his hand palm-up on the table and
leaned over to let her breast touch it.
He
said: "That's soft. Pillowy."
"And so?"
He
moved his hand away. "Five years ago I found myself outside an old
girlfriend's house. I decided to go knock on the door. Some stranger answered.
She told me there'd been a fire and that my old girlfriend's parents had been
killed. She showed me the basement which was still all burned out and a photo
of my old girlfriend she'd found.
"So
I tracked down this old girlfriend. We had coffee. I talked about touching her
breast once and how I thought it that a lot. She talked about her parents and
about how long ago everything was. We decided to go on a date, and we set up a
time.
"That
time came and I went to her apartment. She greeted me in her housecoat looking
disheveled. She had gotten her calendar mixed up.
"I
said: 'Well, I'm here. What do you say we go for a drink?'
"She
said: 'Sorry. Busy. I'm having sex with five men right now, and I don't have
room for another.'"
*
We
tried exchanging time for space during our argument, and we almost got it to
work.
She
put the rolling pin into the past and said, "You're not listening to me
now."
"Listening
to what?"
"To
what I said four paragraphs ago."
"I
wasn't there at the place."
"Are
you seeing my words now?"
I
put the eggbeater in the past, on the table as it once was, and I said, "I
see those words plainly. I still don't know what you said because you must've
said it on the previous page."
"How
can you not understand?"
"I
wasn't there nine paragraphs ago. Can we stay in the here though we can't in
the now?"
We
were pretty good here.
"I'm
almost ready to leave you."
"Where
are you going to go? Are you going to go to the next page maybe?"
"That's
none of your business. I may go to another book altogether."
"What
says they'll have you?"
"I
have my ... my time machine."
"You
have a time machine?"
"Can't
you see I said that?"
"What
time gave you a time machine?"
"I
don't think this argument is working."
"Quite right."
We
picked up utensils and continued cooking.
*
With
a lift in my stride and a lock in my pocket, I found my locker for the new year. I opened the lovingly dented metal door and what
do you think I saw? A bundle of foolscap sheets, three pens, and a coffee cup
emblazoned World's Best Mom. Before I could mutter:
"Left over from last semester?" a large hand clapped upon my
shoulder.
I
turned to see a big woman looking down upon me. "Oh, is this your
locker?" I politely inquired.
She
pulled out the foolscap sheets, handed them to me, and said: "Cut these
into thirds for me."
I
counted them and there were fourteen. "Cutting them into quarters would be
easier."
She
glowered at me, and I replied to her glower: "Of course, into thirds,
right away."
As
I was sitting in the stairwell creasing the sheets, Margaret came down the
stairs. She said: "Did Bronto give you that to do?"
"Is
Bronto a large woman?"
"Yes."
"Then
perhaps she did."
My
thirds were exemplary. I found 'Bronto' at 'our' locker. "My exemplary
thirds," I said, handing them over.
"Don't
need 'em anymore," she said. "The auditorium will be dark."
"Happy to be of service."
*
NEW YEAR'S EVE MESSAGE - PRETAPE -
[EMBARGO TO 11;59;59;27 PM 31 DEC 2017]
Good
evening, and a happy new year to you all.
As
we look back on the year, thinking about the friends who have died in the last
twelve months, let us consider our own chances of surviving through the new year. Some of
you are undoubtedly hoping to die, and I hope your wishes are fulfilled, as I
hope all wishes are fulfilled. It's a terrible thing, this life,
"signifying nothing," yet suffer through it
we must. We shall all hope to end forthwith our consciousnesses
