I decided to include bitter melon in the cucumber salad in case the oddly assorted guests ran out of things to say to one another. I recommend this. People who might otherwise have nothing in common agreed enthusiastically that bitter melon is not fit for human consumption. Don’t you think the sweet, lingering aftertaste is worth the suffering of a bite, I asked. They did not and said so at length.
~
Edward Fitzgerald, who wanted to see a single miracle to prove “God damned us all because a woman ate an apple.” A conversation in the car, in which we agree that water into wine might be a nice miracle, especially if it were dependable, i.e. if there’s water, there’s always wine. We think we could get over the damnation thing for such a convenience and wonder if Fitzgerald would have. He probably didn’t drink though.
William Langland, of whose name we’re not even certain.
I was wondering if anyone has looked at Chris Ware and Georges Perec together. Here’s a reference to Perec (and also a good starting point for other reading), but not much else comes up in a quick search.
Hawthorne’s notebooks are full of ideas for children’s stories, like gnomes living in teeth. Did he ever write any? Yes, he did.
I had to go back and read The Second Awakening from the start. As a result, I’ve been thinking about the author all weekend, as if she’s someone I know. Worrying and wondering about her.
Apparently spruce beer is mostly what it sounds like: beer made with spruce tips and a lot of ginger. Admittedly I couldn’t have divined the ginger part.
Finally—Eucalyptus is available in the app store! It’s the future! It’s beautifully formatted. Every free book I’ve downloaded has a lovely table of contents and elegant formatting. Bite, me Kindle… And speaking of apps, I am really getting a lot of use out of Notebooks, made by Alfons Schmid.
~
Walking quickly toward the train, we caught up with a straggling group of teenage boys going in the same direction. There were six or seven, one in front, limping slightly, clutching his pant leg in one hand and keeping his companion at arm’s length with the other. From the corner of my eye, I imagined glossy red bubble on the side of his shin, but when I turned my head I saw that there was red bone sticking out, a great tear in the flesh. There were a few thin lines of bright blood on his leg, and his shoe was spotted. He kept walking firmly, his face relaxed, shaking his head side to side as his bewildered friends called to him to stop. You’re buggin out somebody said. Yeah, you’re buggin out, they repeated helplessly, as if in relief to have lighted upon the right words.
Later, I passed two women were walking toward me, talking animatedly. One, all curls, gold jewelry and a stretchy aqua halter top, pounded her fist for emphasis. She had a line of inflamed and scabbed piercings tracing a sharp line along her abdominal muscles on one side of her hollow stomach. The other gestured back, her enormous body appearing to move by parts, madras encased hips rolling, great breasts surging forward in an orange shirt with silver print the read, HOTTER THAN YOUR GIRLFRIEND.
As I rounded the corner walking fast, a guy in a white tank top stepped out in front of me, proffering an empty pack of Sudafed and half open straw. When I stepped around him, he frowned and shook them at me, as though to chastise me for neglecting a duty.
Sometimes it seems as though the whole world is under a spell of somnolence or is drifting along in a dimension ordered by an unfathomable logic. I watch through sound proof glass, certain there must be a running broadcast on the other side, issuing orders and providing careful explanations. From my own dimension, everyone appears to accept the most improbable or degrading circumstances without question.
