The writer wants to write a story about Patsy Ann, the Bull Terrier, who was stone deaf from birth like the writer. Like the dog, the writer hears the whistles of approaching ships long before they come into sight, and like the dog, he’s never wrong. He wonders if his subject isn’t too small though. He wants to give something back to the municipality, who has treated him well even though he’s not published much, and not to great acclaim. He simply likes to write about what he sees, and even more about what he cannot see. He feels he’s linked to the terrier somehow, if only because of his unerring sense of loyalty and his love for ships, because here, near the end of the world, ships mean life will go on. He plans to get a dog like Patsy Ann and give her that name, which reminds him of a whorehouse madam with a friendly face, and over this thought he falls asleep, his large furry ears filled with ship horn sounds, distant reminders of the friendship between man and beast.
The longer I lie here, listening to my still functioning electronic innards, the more afraid I grow of detonating after all this time. I don’t share your gods, but I pray I shall die a silent death.
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After some deliberation, he finally settled on an indie called, somewhat obscurely, “Julia, Julienne, Jules And Their Incredibly Indelible Love Affair Between The Sheets Of A Greek Tavern In My Neighbourhood”.
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He finally left the house to get some air. Out on the street, a break dancer was spinning round and round. His xanthous baseball cap lay on the sidewalk like a sacred Tibetan bronze bowl.
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A supermodel, carrying a large Valentine’s box, fell from her considerable, prized height on the ice in front of the grocer’s and stayed down, her long, shapely legs distorted somehow.
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I was like a taxidermist, trying to give the appearance of life to something that was dead inside me. The truth is, of course, I was only scared. But working so hard to describe the unfathomable made me stronger, too.
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February 2, 2010 – 1:37 am
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By flawnt
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Posted in rootedInlove
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Tagged antiquated, asylum, blizzard, conspiracy, crimson, eclectic, epanorthosis, milk wood, periphrastic, pestilence, popsical, savoir-faire, shrinking violet, small pox, taxidermist, tendrils
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Whenever a new sculpture appears like a big friendly giant, the children are the first to claim it by climbing all over it, unsupervised except by the huge eucalyptus trees by the side of the road, who curiously peek over the fence.
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He looks up in the sky and sees a single bird circle. So much space, and yet he imagines it not lonely up there. He wonders if the birds have ghosts, too, and where they go when they’re dead. He wouldn’t mind joining them when the time has come.
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When he died, people wore dark colours and said nice things about him. They played sad music, which he wouldn’t have even liked, and they had his deathmask taken which made him look limp and not like him at all.
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Everybody’s got a voice and even if you kill them you can’t take that voice away. Even the rain flowing down the gutter and on the street and from there into the Yangtze and into the sea, knows that. Our voice goes with the rain to the ocean and touches everyone else.
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