Irrepressible tears meant she seemed to move backward in our lives from night to night, as viewed from my deeply wounded heart. I remembered when we walked holding coffee cups (forlornly) about our veranda, her voice spondee as a child carved of stone.
Suspecting some kind of funny business (she can’t be trusted), while she slept, I opened the casket and was mortified by what I found. His thin grey mustache was cradled like soft wax in his hands, and his huge legs were crossed medieval style. Could diet and environment are the real answers?
Many years later, we visited a city on the east coast and went to look for the three ruined windmills. This was where she surrendered her original maturity (for the bitter trials of our world to come). Over my shoulder I carried a short step-ladder.
'personal annals and phenomena'
I was listening to muted whispers of nothing sensible, and I looked up and saw you awake reading this. Naked bodies floated towards a nearby window calling to each other. Meanwhile, she hid her face but kept her crooked thumbs visible, touching a great cat hypnotized by falling pine-cones.
I think the only plausible explanation for her shambling transience would be a supernova. Because while she is still brightening an irresistibly comic expression would form on her face and no one could make head or tail of it.
The things she threw down were odd, and there were far, far more of them than I’d ever imagined. Her attachment to supplicants was expected, but she never allowed anyone to touch the loose drift of leaves packed inside her blouse.
My economic disposition happens to be part and parcel of post-Freudian alienation. In other words, my life narrative claims a democratic resistance to values of constructed situations.
I thought she had to. She’d been told many times. And there were some amusing facts about her in pajamas. In the snack bar we were both wearing pajamas, sitting around a table playing pontoon. I felt like smoking a cigarette and laying down the law.
Her responses rose and fell. The parakeet flew from room to room. Trees across the street seemed bent by 80 degrees. I listened to her bully beef and dry biscuit reasoning from 12:00 to 2:00. As usual, an afternoon spent alone reading under a cypress tree on Mount Paladermo would have been highly preferable.
Forgetfulness, I am well aware, can be evidence of forgotten casual encounters with prostitutes. Yet it can’t be denied that wearing a fine old tweed scarf during these encounters satisfies a confessional urge.
running the whole length of the horizon...