forgive me
Saturday 24 September 2005 | I like a cookie
I just ate a small yellow pear my landlady gave me. It came off a tree much older than I am and for that matter probably older than she is in her seventies. It was cold, having been in the fridge for a couple of days now—I had to half-peel it, scratched and bruised as real fruit always is. I stood over the trash can, cutting it with a paring knife, icy sticky juice running down the backs of my fingers and hands.
Right now my fingernails are painted bright metallic blueberry, which I did yesterday after Flightplan—I’m not sure why. Mandarin left a message on my machine last night, and I listened to it standing up on my way back to bed, four quarters of pear on a saucer I stole from Mount Holyoke years ago. I don’t know how but I didn’t even hear it—she must have left it around midnight, and I was Romanoffed and completely comatose. On the message she’s sobbing and pleading for help. I need to call her back right now.
The pear melted, wet and buttery, faintly alcoholic, in my mouth, its cold wine.
The change of color is likely and a difference a very little difference is prepared. Sugar is not a vegetable. (Gertrude Stein)
From an odd half-dozen corners of the web:
• The Apocalypse, continued—an asteroid could hit the earth in 2019
• Annie Dillard reviews Halldór Laxness, and so beautifully, too
• improve that MFA/PhD application’s boring personal statement
• and surely everybody knows by now that Courtney did it
After my avowal that I wouldn’t put anything old up on this site (only borrowed, only blue), I came across this entry from earlier in the year, 20 March 06 to be exact, and decided you might want more backstory, especially when it comes to “The pink ones keep you from screaming.” I’d say, enjoy; except I don’t know how enjoyable an acute case of 299.36 (Major Depressive Disorder, Recurrent, Severe, without Psychotic Features) can be, not only for its patient but for any participating family members, friends, or even innocent standersby. A dramatic automobile wreck of the psyche. James Dean, Jayne Mansfield. But hey—let’s assume your sensibilities are as morbid and fucked-up as mine are, in which case—enjoy!
post your glowing encomium (or bitter philippic) »
Follow this heated, lively discussion through its very own feed; also, you can pingback or trackback from your own doubtlessly much more interesting site.
