Sunday, October 12, 2008

Of course you're alright, it's spelled out in cuneiform tablets stacked so thick you'd think Oprah was on her way.  I'd think you were mistaken, but let's reserve such opinions for a later date, I'm thinking of a number between June and April.  I said, How do you like that, a real nibbler, nibbling me fine, and I have no complaints.  Yesterday I went to wash my car but Nicodemus had beat me to the punch, and was spiking it openly.  Tenderly I touched his arm and convinced him to lay down a wager for the party manager, a rotund rascal by the name of Peter Dunlap.  Peter Dunlap, a great man, they said, and who could blame or disbelieve them?  I certainly wasn't in any kind of mood to go about hunting for play-dates for my nephews and their spouses and their children.  It was too much, and it was sunny, and I felt like maneuvering a hippo into the shed.  The hinges on the door were squeaky, so I gave them a tune-up and gave everybody a hug, ushering us all into the new millennium, the one we'd all been waiting for.  Before long it was time to roll out the cake.  Frosting was optional, they'd said at the bakery, and I'd opted for it.  Some time passed before everyone had a piece, and I'll be damned if little Jolene didn't end up with a chocolate-covered face.  It was that kind of small event that made me reconsider selling myself into the waiting arms of yet another handsome canto floating patiently from room to room at all hours.  Nothing could stop me from wondering where it had come from, but something did stop me from climbing to the top of the radio tower and calling in an air strike on the fitfully sleeping town below.  A window was open, so I closed it, but nothing else in the room would budge, not curtains, not furniture, not ideas about armature or candelabras.  And then—well, somebody had to do something!  All that china wasn't going to just gather itself off the floor and reassemble into graceful shapes.  Duh.  A lot of time and effort went into the project, only to yield mixed results.  As a consolation prize, a potato fastener was told to be unlike all others of its kind, lest inspectors relegate it to the nightmare warehouse scenario.  Oh no, nothing like that.  It was too perspicacious to have even been considered.  Light wasn't getting in anyway, it was all shot up, useless.  I could tell many had been through and left their wrappers and so forth all along the darkened halls.  Well, any which way would do, supposing the lights be left on and the cats turned out while people with serious business on their minds could be left to contemplate the edge of sanity, as it were, though not unlike feathery cirrus clouds, kites, rainbows, happy animals and lucky machines.  It was a good day to think such thoughts, to dream and whatnot, unlike most days found shackled beneath the stairs, an oily excrescence resembling a wart but much larger.  Oh, I guess that was his brown-haired head.  My mistake.  These glasses are foggy and unreliable.  Who let all that steam in here?  Close the doors and windows.  I mean open them!  Open the doors and windows!  I can't see a thing.  It's getting darker and cloudier and the sun is—hold on, no—the ocean is folding chairs for me in my vast arboretum, the classiest patch of cultivated grass you're likely ever to see.

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