rattled
Saturday 12 April 2008 | someone left a cookie
Turning up out of thin air, the way he always enters my life without warning, the Young Monk emailed me tonight.
I called the Brujo from his study and asked him to read the message, in case 1) the Monk wants to send me money and/or 2) has exposed me to some horrible STD (though I am always negative, as I paranoidly test and retest).
The B. was silent, reading. “Well….it’s very dramatic.”
“Wow, I’m so surprised.” Pause while I futz nervously with my new brass quilting pins. “I assume he wants me to contact him.”
“Yeah—it says that, basically, you’re free to get in touch with him if you want.”
“Uh-huh. Did he find the Un?”
“No, your real website. Should I throw it in the trash?”
“Yes, please.”
“Should I empty the trash?”
“Yes, please.”
Now the B. is showering while the Soul Coughing guy assures us that we should move aside and let the man go through. And I’m definitely rattled, but it will pass. All very strange, because I have a half-finished post brewing (”aunt freud”—finally) in which I speculate on the damage sustained in infancy by my Gallery of Rogues, and my own damage that I would wander around the world like a puzzle piece looking for a fit, with an emotional t-shirt reading PLEASE BLAME ME FOR YOUR FEELINGS, I ALREADY FEEL GUILTY ANYWAY.
Added to this is the extra-nice feature that the Librarian’s Wife, with whom I had a lively correspondence this school year (well, lively considering that I never email anyone, ever), is abruptly maintaining an ominous electronic silence, despite my having prophylactically emailed her apologizing profusely for whatever it was I undoubtedly did. And I can only guess that the Librarian has had some kind of Moment, possibly breaking down and telling her about the existence of the Un. Or has he up and offed himself, as he threatens to do every spring, because April is his cruelest month whereas February is mine? Oh God. Why are all the Rogues resurfacing at once? Just because I went and had an insight about them? Is it astrological? Seasonal? Mere synchronicity?
Now Kurt moans at us, from the Unplugged album. “Do you remember the nineties?” intones the Brujo in a towel, dripping onto the tile, slapping on bay rum aftershave. We’re about to leave for a colleague’s poetry-reading party. Time to stop being rattled, to stop blogging. Time to be here, now, companioned yet unharmed.
hey wait I got a new complaint
forever in debt
to your priceless advice
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