READING AND WRITING
Finally crawled out of the frozen tundra and found myself a better man. Hibernation can be very redeeming when there is a purpose. The last couple of days, God has been sending us loads of freeze-dried manna. No real substance. Just an overall whiteout. So I couldn't really go out of the house. I was to be a snow-driven captive and I had to make the best of it.
Reading outloud was never something that appealed to me. Partially because I can't hear it when others read outloud. (Some kind of block) And partially because I love the sound of my own voice a little too much. But when Nicole told me that she had never experienced Fitzgerald, Hemmingway, Huxley, Sallinger, Henry James...I had to oblige her in a way that would make a sincere difference. We sat for hours on my quilted red day bed. Her head in my lap as I layed out the classics in her mother tongue. Hours and hours. I must admit, things got a little difficult for all involved when I broke out the Henry Miller and Anais Nin, but we managed. And in the grey of the snowy afternoon, God gave love to his children and we started a fire for him. It's still burning. I've been putting on logs every hour since Friday night.
(NEXT DAY)
I'm back now. After the love has gone. The arcade fire is mere cinders and ash and smoke. I had to take all of my clothes down to the Laundromatt and wash the lot of them. I'm talking about everything in the house. Even Nicole's. Automatic had to help me with the 26 loads. Damn. I've got a lot of useless material lying around here. I saw the girl with those strips of color in her hair. She looks amazing. I'll have to watch myself until Nicole comes back. My weekend may have come to an end, but my week is just beginning. My house still smells ablaze. It inspires me as I assume the voice of Holden Caulfield and write. Just write. A rant. No cough syrup necessary.
Reading outloud was never something that appealed to me. Partially because I can't hear it when others read outloud. (Some kind of block) And partially because I love the sound of my own voice a little too much. But when Nicole told me that she had never experienced Fitzgerald, Hemmingway, Huxley, Sallinger, Henry James...I had to oblige her in a way that would make a sincere difference. We sat for hours on my quilted red day bed. Her head in my lap as I layed out the classics in her mother tongue. Hours and hours. I must admit, things got a little difficult for all involved when I broke out the Henry Miller and Anais Nin, but we managed. And in the grey of the snowy afternoon, God gave love to his children and we started a fire for him. It's still burning. I've been putting on logs every hour since Friday night.
(NEXT DAY)
I'm back now. After the love has gone. The arcade fire is mere cinders and ash and smoke. I had to take all of my clothes down to the Laundromatt and wash the lot of them. I'm talking about everything in the house. Even Nicole's. Automatic had to help me with the 26 loads. Damn. I've got a lot of useless material lying around here. I saw the girl with those strips of color in her hair. She looks amazing. I'll have to watch myself until Nicole comes back. My weekend may have come to an end, but my week is just beginning. My house still smells ablaze. It inspires me as I assume the voice of Holden Caulfield and write. Just write. A rant. No cough syrup necessary.
posted by The Passenger at 4:28 PM
1 Comments:
And if the snow buries my,
my neighborhood.
And if my parents are crying
then I'll dig a tunnel
from my window to yours,
yeah a tunnel from my window to yours.
You climb out the chimney
and meet me in the middle,
the middle of town.
And since there's no one else around,
we let our hair grow long
and forget all we used to know,
then our skin gets thicker
from living out in the snow.
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