(sort of. this is a re-unedited version of something from the book)
I wish her face death.
That's what I do when I don't feel like talking to someone. I usually don't like to commingle my feelings and yet I felt dislike and respect for her at the same time, like that budling that once grew outside my little door and that I subsequently contaminated with my yellow spirits.
What is stamen Sister Mary?
I was chastised by neighbors and grew glum, sitting on my porch in my rickety rocker with my windpipe and dreams of buying a new way of moving.
Cruising. Just past the big statue of the hand and all the fine brown honeypumps turning to give me primetime catatonia.
Soon I adjusted to the pasture in the distance and the cold, long, dark nights of being human. What grows there?
"Good morning Mr. Johnson", she said.
I grumbled but not loud enough for her to hear so accustomgrown had I to smilethis way.
"Mmm, good morning", I said.
"Looks like it's gonna be a cold, long, hard winter", she said.
"Looks like", I said.
I wanted reparations. Reparations for a life of unclear choices that led to wrong turnstyles. Where was my fate? I wanted a fate. I would have embraced my fate, good or bad, if only it had presented itself to me earlier and in ways that I could understand.
The flying incident? No one knows.
The reading of Twirl by Candy McKenzie at the local library? I remember it, and yet…she didn't write it.
Sayonara to the little maiden that I would have liked to describe by using the word opprobrium as a symbol for my secret affection for her. But pigtail pippigirls never gave me dayslashnight time. Not that I know of.
Then the sky opened up and a beam of light hit the valley in the distance. I reached out to it and grabbed a piece of it between my fingers and placed it in my windpipe. And when I spoke…
Perhaps I was fateless. Yes. That would explain many things. Or perhaps it was my fate to not know my fate. Maybe. Still, what would it hurt to know? Wasn't there enough mystery in books?
A cold, long, hard winter indeed Mrs. O'Reilly.
"Would you like to come over for some tea?" she asked me.
"I know what tea is", I said.
I moved my windpipe to one side and snow fell outside the window. Across from us wood burned in a fireplace. This place. So nondescript in an old way barely perceptible should one blink.
This place. A place of wood remaining things that people would like to hear windchimes to.
This place. A place of trinkets and baubles and everything that is not the essence of a thing.
"I like the Gauguin", I said. "It reminds me of painting and art."
I wish her face death.
Will she smile and hobnobgenuflect along my orbit now that I have revealed my brainhand?
Sasha is 10 million light years away. Perhaps her light will reach my grave.
"I had a daughter", she said. "Missy was her name. She liked westerns."
This tea. This invite. This unveiling of her nondescript livingthings. Missy liked westerns. How did I end up living near this tea Mrs. O'Reilly?
Then the sky opened up and rain fell like Judah. I reached out to it and grabbed a piece of it between my fingers and placed it in my windpipe. Things went undissolved and remained for no other reason or purpose than to remain.
"Missy", I said.
"Eyeblink", I said.
"Oigen oigen", I said.
Capture me a moment in time when without permission I reigned in this loci. Perhaps this has been called tea in some places but where I come from they call it surrender.
"Thank you for the tea", I said.
"Mrs. O'Reilly", I said.
"Tea", I said.
"Thank you", I said.
Or perhaps it was like and disrespect that were commingled. And when I spoke… the valley grew ripe (say it) melons.
This is a true story. But not like the last time I dreamt about blood and that train that traveled along Sasha's ribbon.
And then the sky opened up and a wind rushed through the crease. I reached out to it and grabbed a piece of it between my fingers and placed it in my windpipe.
It's been said that music can kill a lion. I understand now that this cannot be true.