dear bobo,
happy birthday! i am sorry i missed it, but i hummed the song for you this morning while we convoyed into the city. i think you're eight now, but it's hard to keep track 'cuz you just seem so big and grown-up each time i see you.
mom tells me you got bit on the neck by a spider the other day and that you haven't been feeling so great. she says maybe you're not having a birthday party this year 'cuz some weird stuff happened when you first tried to go back to school after getting sick....
When nothing really matters you can make anything mean everything. We were building sandcastles, waiting for the high tide to erase the evidence. No one wanted to be here anymore. We were hesitant to make permanent changes, but never really afraid of anything at all.
When nothing really means anything, maybe only everything means something. Try to interpret the meaning of double negatives and find yourself lost in a maze of meanings. Maybe.
We were building snowmen on the first day of spring, waiting for the weather to turn and ruin everything. No one we knew wanted to be here...
The disco ball was turning, splattering little dots of light around the room. James waited patiently in his carefully thoughtout position directly above it. He needed to wait until his target reached the invisible X directly under the big rotating ball of tiny mirrors. His fingers ached but soon, he told himself, soon he would have satisfaction. The man in the suit coat was nearing th X. James positioned the knife next to the rope that held the disco ball. The man was on the X. In one swift motion, James cut the rope and watched as it fell. There...
Shape is a thing that comes to you, after you have grown.
Breasts.
Waist.
Arms.
Butt.
It's a struggle between feeling fit and feeling smart, isn't it? This is the struggle. The struggle to take shape.
Job.
House.
Money.
Love (but not in a way that denotes overindulgence).
These are the sacrifices we make between sheer bliss and sweet control. You don't blame me?
You shouldn't.
We have been in the bunker for weeks now sharing a room with me and my five brothers. Its hard to imagine our life before the war, in a nice large house with lots of nice food. Its my birthday tomorrow im the youngest , im turning 5. I learnt to read and write when i was 2, i was an advanced child , my parents used to believe i was a prodigy, they tried to make me learn thing like piano and violin, things that take lots of concentration. I failed at violin but i went well with piano...
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He knocked the three knocks. The two rap-raps. He whistled like a wren. Then he knocked twice again. The flight attendant replied, "Captain. Pick up the phone. I'm not playing your games."
"Oh come on. Just reply with the secret knock. It's easy."
"What is it you want?"
"To go to the restroom."
"Ok. Punch in your code and I'll punch in mine, and we'll get you to the lavatory and back."
She punches her code, her hand on the handle. She waits. "Captain?" She hears three knocks. Two rap-raps. A whistle like a wren.
"Captain. I'm a grown woman....
My stomach felt like a balloon under my fingers. The cold gel pinned my thoughts onto the effort of not peeing. “The fetus sack is visualised”, the operator announced to no one in particular, startling me out of my penance. I looked up at him, then at the screen he was facing. The patches of grey kept moving, like clouds on a breezy day. A dot stood out. A tiny dot that seemed to throb. Both of us stared at it, though only one did with any knowledge.
I knew it was mine. I had made it, maybe the first...
The thing about gold is: it lies inert. I mean, it shines, but...
Dubloons, you've heard the pirates speak of them. 490 years lie, ocean floor notwithstanding, and not a bit of tarnish, no rust.
Just try that with your silver, your iron, brass, your copper plate!
Gold. It runs, blurs, but -cool- it does not interact.
For this reason we think of it as pure, as spiritual:
Gold knows only its own soul.
Like a frigid bride it bides its time, growing not older, but alone
"So, old woman, how do you cure Love at First Sight?"
The crone laughed like a deadman's rattle. "Ah, there's a thing. Well, if you were some maid, I'd say a kiss. Or to be truly rid of it, a marriage." She pronounced marriage 'marry-ahj' the old way of yore.
"Neither is possible. I'm already wed, and happily too, were it not for this accursed lust that's come over me."
"Tell me her name and her story." the wise one requested. Of course, she already knew the girl. The lovesick sow who'd pleaded for a love spell. Yet she listened...