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“An event rubs up on the available canvas like a cat scratching its back on a pant leg – static. A marble dropped in a Rube Goldberg machine. I left my wife, or she left me, glass pebble down a copper pipe. The house had been drafty in winter, the stews too autumnal or not autumnal enough, radios tuned fractionally out of earshot. So we slipped seaward, and the vendors hawked yellow roses on the waterfront when the red ones sold out, fish when the yellow ones wilted, then tails and eyes. I bought a silver skeleton and kept it in my pocket.
It did not matter anymore whether I read articles on evolutionary psychology or peeled the potatoes clean as a nude thigh, filtered scum from the fragile ponds of sun in windowsills. Sounds blanched like jackets from the meanings of words, faucets leaked, abstractions such as the internet got out of hand like a frog colony under the house. No one pruned anything. Spittle bugs foamed cappuccinos on the undersides of leaves while I fell victim to three... grey hairs in my beard, surrendered for long intervals to a shard of a tune, From the far side of the ocean … My divorce was a breeze shot through with salt.MoreLess
It did not matter anymore whether I read articles on evolutionary psychology or peeled the potatoes clean as a nude thigh, filtered scum from the fragile ponds of sun in windowsills. Sounds blanched like jackets from the meanings of words, faucets leaked, abstractions such as the internet got out of hand like a frog colony under the house. No one pruned anything. Spittle bugs foamed cappuccinos on the undersides of leaves while I fell victim to three... grey hairs in my beard, surrendered for long intervals to a shard of a tune, From the far side of the ocean … My divorce was a breeze shot through with salt.MoreLess
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