Jul 10, 2017

Along the lines of the last post

(This is by our friend Jim Ferringer)


Fragment, fragment. Here, This Is Heaven, Chapter 14. Very short. Greta telling her story. Don't ask.


“But that’s not exactly what happens. Ben is in, yes, and now what? He’s in. And that’s it. He’s basically slacking. There is, at most, the faintest hint of life in his pendulous organ which is now absorbed by my womb. How to say this? There’s a Mozart opera where, in one scene, the music comes from very far away, but it’s Mozart nonetheless."

Jul 9, 2017

It was a dark and stormy night













Fragment, fragment. The GREEN EYES were about everything, there was always a fitting fragment. How about THIS IS HEAVEN, then? Why, here, the opening of Chapter 47, the cataclysmic chapter. The context is complicated. Ask yourself the question: are John and Alex still together?

It’s a dark and stormy night out there beyond the entrance of the Atlantis Beach Hotel. I’ve re-activated the A-level phone and dialed Alex. We need a ride, I explain.
Alex is not in the mood (“We can’t seem to get rid of our John”).
I get defensive (“You put me up with Bienpensant”).
He gets sarcastic (“Didn’t I tell you she’s a good lay”).
I’m pleading (“I need you help”).
He’s sarcastic (“With your adrenal fatigue…”).
I signal the need for motorized transportation (“A big box of fireworks”).
He turns self-reflexive (“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, I apologize”)—but then he interrupts himself, “Fireworks?”

I explain.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Alex,” I say, “I’m ready to ditch you.”
“Apologies again,” he says. “Kaboom, she said?”
“Yes.”
“Kaboom is what we need,” he muses. “Your box is possibly too large for my Prius. Stupid.”

I hang up. You can’t physically hang up with a cell phone, but this is the new, Swarovski-encrusted A-thing, and I angle my arm like a baseball player and lob it across the dunes into the angry, wind-swept sea.

Then I calm down and borrow the dolly for a while and push the fireworks through the storm to the field. I’m thinking. I have always had trouble with these he-knows-that-she-knows-that-he-knows chains, and now I’m having trouble with Alex’s sarcasm-remarks: so, he apologizes—so he’s aware it hurts—so he’s aware that I’m aware that it hurts—and then adding insult to injury—assuming that a flat apology would do—that our John is everybody’s clown and especially his. (As they say math books: the remainder of the proof is left to the reader.)

By the way: if you fix the fireworks to the base of a rickety bleacher, loaded with people, and kaboom, what the fuck do you expect?