Well, fine, doom us all, you petulant country, you. You’re not very original.
Quote of the Day goes to my good friend Ian. He says: “Oy. Geek boys going after you is like a guy with one week of martial arts classes under his belt going to a bar and looking for the hugest guy in there. And then pissing in his shoes.” Ian’s known me a long time.
Today at work I was reading Carl Sagan and a collection of re-contextualized post-modern fairy-tales. Possibly, I need to get out more. More likely, I need to figure out which of these books are mine and which are borrowed and from where.
Terence McKenna’s library was just destroyed in a fire.
He had been a well-lathed challenge, a good time waiting to be had. She didn’t know about the long drive, about the night. In her astonished stride, motivations were uneasy, rote, at war. She said, like kicking a small cat in the ribs, “I’ll wait if I have to.” Almost instinctively, he had flinched and reached for her body.
“Why does the wolf care,” she asked, “for your voice?” She sat alone in a wooden room, a crumpled red cloak a metaphor at her feet. Her tongue flickered when she spoke. The floor was littered with spices; sugar, cloves, and cinnamon. She had prepared a bed of leaves, flowers, pine-needles and double-starched sheets, her smile as lemon pie. Streaked across the ceiling was a moment suspended in time, static clouds she had painted in gold. Anxious, she spoke to herself again, “It’s only a story.” She remembers how his fur had felt in the taxi. Like the forest, she is barefoot, in a soft and fragile state of grace.
Blood and beauty. “Fill his belly full of stones. Cut open his belly and fill it with memories, reasons, excuses, stones. Wear his skin. The old formula – remember to breathe.” His teeth retracted, his eyes closed, their mouths had opened, they had kissed. Almost ceremonially, she had taken off her clothes, undone his belt. Wood fell under the axe of her tongue.
Alone now, she remembers how his fur felt in the taxi, and waits.