Andare, Partire, Tornare


Things that live under bridges. Oh, and Uzi's

How can I not love a friend who wrote a story starring herself, myself, and our mutual best friend, and do it as a sequel to Dawn of the Dead? I present you with the titlepage from that epic tale:

Dawn of the Dead II
(Alternate Title: Granny, don't bend over in the garden, you know them taters got eyes)

By Persia

Featuring -
Persia as the cynical pilot
Cherbear as the non-violent realist
Genibee - the genius uzi-wielder

Since this journal is all about me, me, me, I'll just let you see the paragraph describing me.

"Alone in the back seat of the chipper was the enigma known as Genibee (Jenny to her friends, Painful Death to her enemies, and Damned Communist Prevert to her one sworn arch-nemisis). Genevieve was a confirmed genius (nine out of ten doctors had agreed) and all throughout her academic career had left teachers and fellow students agape and agoggle with her simple, yet profound sayings and aphorisms. "Beware the naked man who offers you his shirt," she was known to say, wisely pushing her glasses back. "Especially if it's plaid."

Do any of you have friends that cool? I thought not.

By the way, my previous rant about people who lecture you, where I tried to maintain a diplomatic and non-gender-specific bent? Well, forget it. That's all out the window. I hearby state my position clearly - men don't fucking know when to shut up, despite the fact that their audience is considering slitting their wrists so they can get a nice quiet ride in an ambulance to a hospital far, far away. Our museum prep guy is a wonderful person. He is very capable, nice, and an all-around great guy. IF HE TELLS ME ABOUT THE CONSTRUCTION ON HIS HOUSE ONE MORE TIME I WILL HAVE TO KILL HIM WITH AN AXE. It's not that he mentions it, it's that he goes on at great length about the miniscule measuring mistakes (hey, alliteration!) that the idiot construction workers have done. I was interested in this saga, once upon a time, but he NEVER SHUTS UP about it. It's like Bemo wandering off into an eye-glazing discussion on the intimate differences between tube amps and solid state amps. I can accept some information. I cannot accept a monologue that goes on for, at minimum, fifteen fucking minutes.

On the other hand, Bemo did find a way of making me remember some dates last night. The squirt bottle we use on the cats? Well, it's apparently an effective tool for humans, too. Shh, don't tell Susan Faludi.

I leave you with a poem I've always loved, although I don't really know why. I've had people tell me it's a horrible, hack poem, but I don't think that's correct. If you have any opinions on it, let me know in the guestbook. I think it's a fucking disturbing poem, myself.

Small Myth for my Father

I hear him nights under the bridge,
moss-shouldered, arranging the skulls
of children like jack-o'-lanterns
on the rocks. He's really not

So fearsome, he wants the tallow
to become their skin, plug up
their eyes so they can see the darkness
as he does. He lives on the cracked

marrow of baby deer and Indian turnips,
Jack-in-the-pulpits,licking the leaflike
spathe round the clublike spadix dry.
He's so lonely he would die

if he thought the dark would keep him company,
and not turn its huge shoulders
of dark away from him, like the hills.
Sometimes he kisses the toads

pressing his lips to their hard tallow
lips, the sound of the creek
turning the paddle wheel in the miniature-
golf course, his stalking grounds.

--Stephen Perry, 1991

9:47 a.m. - 2002-03-08


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