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It has happened, and I'm pierced again, four little nail heads in my hips on the place where my boylines would be, if I had them. I think that eventually they may grow into little chevrons. The NoKaOi people are growing on me, although I am still uncomfortable with the fact that I had to fall into the Cool Kids' Club in order for this to happen. I dislike social groups that operate like this, but I regularly seem to be a part of them. I still blame the fact that none of my friends had friends as children.
I helped Debbie move and I have broken my back, although not badly. I sat in the back of a truck in Kensington. I laughed at a cat.
I walked past the art museum and back. In between I ate sushi, including eel for the first time, and met a boy and began to enact various scenarios that mostly involved assortments of things on trays and the suggestion that I should be beaten. I met a lightning bug on the way home. In the summer I always think that I am seeing them, but they are always bits of streetlamp stuck in broken glass, or the end of someone's cigarette. This one was real, though, and I caught her, and she bumped into my shirt. What were you doing in my neighborhood, little bug?
I am getting to be so good at cutting fish. My lines are smooth as one could want them, and no meat is lost. I cut an Alaskan king salmon today, a thing that is valued exactly as much as it should be. They are big: its gills were out before I got to it, but had they remained, they'd each have been the size of your hand, or bigger. I spoke with a customer who felt that, because of its rarity and everything else, it was a holy food. Yes, yes, I said, it is. As I scaled it, I thought of Antony and Eros, of the removal of armour, of moments of reverence and tenderness. I took the knife to it, as it asked of me, and I did my part well. I ate the scraps. One should waste nothing, especially of something that once lived.
I poked through Parker's glass today. She used to make it. I'm wearing a little green and almost blue thing now on a silver chain around my neck, and we have a gift for my sister's birthday: a fat hobbit's bowl with a delicate pipe. Thin bits of gold are pulled through it. These are the worst things she's made, the dregs that didn't sell, and they are perfect.
Debbie and I spoke of evolution today, and of hope. There was art, and autism, and maybe the interconnectedness of everything, and perhaps the nobility of self-destruction. I made dinner for the three of us: pompano! and apples and cranberries and spices, and broccoli with tangerine and garlic and dried peppers and white wine. I keep meaning to tell her that she is my girlfriend, the one I don't touch, but I forget and it does not matter. When she is rich she'll steal me away and I'll cook for her. I like this game.
There are terrible things in my closet.
I helped Debbie move and I have broken my back, although not badly. I sat in the back of a truck in Kensington. I laughed at a cat.
I walked past the art museum and back. In between I ate sushi, including eel for the first time, and met a boy and began to enact various scenarios that mostly involved assortments of things on trays and the suggestion that I should be beaten. I met a lightning bug on the way home. In the summer I always think that I am seeing them, but they are always bits of streetlamp stuck in broken glass, or the end of someone's cigarette. This one was real, though, and I caught her, and she bumped into my shirt. What were you doing in my neighborhood, little bug?
I am getting to be so good at cutting fish. My lines are smooth as one could want them, and no meat is lost. I cut an Alaskan king salmon today, a thing that is valued exactly as much as it should be. They are big: its gills were out before I got to it, but had they remained, they'd each have been the size of your hand, or bigger. I spoke with a customer who felt that, because of its rarity and everything else, it was a holy food. Yes, yes, I said, it is. As I scaled it, I thought of Antony and Eros, of the removal of armour, of moments of reverence and tenderness. I took the knife to it, as it asked of me, and I did my part well. I ate the scraps. One should waste nothing, especially of something that once lived.
I poked through Parker's glass today. She used to make it. I'm wearing a little green and almost blue thing now on a silver chain around my neck, and we have a gift for my sister's birthday: a fat hobbit's bowl with a delicate pipe. Thin bits of gold are pulled through it. These are the worst things she's made, the dregs that didn't sell, and they are perfect.
Debbie and I spoke of evolution today, and of hope. There was art, and autism, and maybe the interconnectedness of everything, and perhaps the nobility of self-destruction. I made dinner for the three of us: pompano! and apples and cranberries and spices, and broccoli with tangerine and garlic and dried peppers and white wine. I keep meaning to tell her that she is my girlfriend, the one I don't touch, but I forget and it does not matter. When she is rich she'll steal me away and I'll cook for her. I like this game.
There are terrible things in my closet.
