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Showing posts from October, 2017

Night anthems of a ghoul

…or what was intended to be a tribute to the great Veva Purvious, who recently announced her impending departure from my law firm. Eyes on stalks and Mini-me in tow, she is making her way to the door, has very nearly now passed through the door, even as I put down a few remarks here.
This is not a tribute to the great Veva Purvious – not anymore, as anyone can see, as you can see – because in truth, it is completely beyond me now to write on a predetermined topic. Anything at all. Like the time I set off on writing about a business meeting of some import and it came out a musing on the size of a woman’s face.
It just gets away from me, somehow.
If it were in me to be a writer, really, a writer, staying on topic, well, that’s a must. Also it could be helpful, I believe, for me to know colors, and plants, and architecture. Extremely important in the way of descriptions, I am told, if you read them. Do you read descriptions, I wonder? Elmore Leonard, who was a writer, gave some advice for …

Mutatis mutandis

The path to the top of the hill could have been better. True, there were no impediments to him, per se, not any people to disturb him in his thoughts, not anything else at all apart from the trees – so very many trees! – and the sounds of birds, too, along with something else, insects, probably, and then there was the air, which was always the same air and always comfortable.
And so much light, light full to bursting with what his mother once called illimitable fecundity.
Still, something nagged at him, in his thoughts, at the very back of his thoughts, every time without fail. It could all be so much better.
At the top of the hill – which he thought of as his hill and which was not a tall hill, really – he could look out and he could see it all. Every single thing he knew of. Illimitable fecundity. With nothing to disturb his thoughts, he could look out and see everything that could have been better.
This hill, for starters. Yes, the hill was flawed. It should have been taller, and inste…

Ward of Moth

If we begin with the right cuff, then truly, there is no problem with it.
The right cuff, then. The entire right sleeve, in fact, assuming it is correct in its length, and most of them are, does its job admirably and no one is the wiser. If you should see this cuff, this sleeve – on me, I suppose – you would have no suspicions, no objections. No. You would say to yourself, if you said anything, and why bother, “Here is a perfectly ordinary man wearing a shirt.” I am covered.
To my right arm I apply, daily but sparingly, at last, Triamcinolone Acetonide Cream USP 1%. O, that’s what it says upon the crinkled tube. Left behind by an old girlfriend, long ago, who knows which one?
It helps, I believe. The little holes in my skin do not spread beyond the reach of my right cuff.
But if it should happen that, for some unknowable reason, we come to speak of the left cuff, now the situation is not identical. To my left arm, I apply no cream but rather, hydrogen peroxide. It is a failed experiment…