The plan for the post: some carefully selected autobiographical details from the day, some freestyling, and probably no hint of scene 8 (I’m not feeling this story at all, it feels forced, as if I pushed myself into some place where I really don’t know what to do, and thats some real shit. That said, I’m a stubborn bastard and have decided to finish it. Just not now!)
Somewhere in the back a sweet jazz cat’s horn is playing, and a piano provides light accompaniment. I sit and ponder. Drama, drama, drama. Makes me want to move to a solitary island to spend the rest of my days chewing on tropical fruits and living off the land in complete abandon. I remember getting a ride through the Shasta mountain range, where often times you would see a property or two stretch for miles. Miles and miles of grass and rocks interrupted only by the occasional tree and that single, lowly and lonely shack of a house where the owner lives or at least lived. I imagined this to be paradise–with a shotgun to boot. It is also a good place for brutal crimes, I suspect. People really need to chill. The moment you drop the pride, you drop 90% of the bullshit. The other 10 you can bear with, and the real shit, you should deal with. Its a god damn shame when grown ass adults preach the concept but can’t practice it.
–1924
The water in the pool ripples violently around the lily’s petals. The lily is part of a whole constellation of flora specially cared for by the park authorities in the old Abernathy pond. Abernathy is the artificial pond extraordinaire of McKinley park– oval shape, the axes maybe 20 by 50 meters, hard to tell at this distance. It features an exquisitely mosaicked floor on which through the crystal clear water the onlooker may witness the sight of thousands of coins of various denominations and quantities spread out roughly evenly throughout the pond. At it’s central point, the pool is crowned with a fountain featuring what looks like Venus and four little angels, pissing as usual. My vantage point is the presidential chair in my office, on the fifth floor, about 100 meters from the park entrance, and maybe 150 meters from the pond itself. My binoculars are very powerful but unfortunately have only one magnification.
Truly magnificent sight, these ripples. As I dart my sight with the binoculars gently across the whole pond it seems as though these ripples were not an isolated incident. The whole pond is rippling, as if a high frequency vibration were shaking the ground below the pool, the effect being comparable to a glass of water placed on top of a spinning washing machine.
I take my eyes off the binoculars for a minute and look back at my desk. It still radiates that feeling of permanence and stability, not to mention holding the piles of unfinished work, none of which seems to be vibrating. I touch it all the same just to make sure that the tiny vibration which escaped my sight will not escape my touch. It might have been tiny enough to have managed to escape even that, but then again I figured if it was so tiny, it might as well not exist.
I am about to return to the sight of the pond when a violent knock on the door comes to my attention. Clara! That bitch.
–1958
