"The spies came out of the water." This is what the voice possessing my laptop tells me. I wish for a moment that I could assemble all the seemingly random pieces of music that my ears digest on a daily basis and replay them to myself when random bars and measures invade my head, slipping their vapors into my brain. The clock ticks as I remember how, once again, I forget the promise of technology. It's not a convenience if it's marked error by operator.
How does one write a wedding toast when the day's epitaph has been slowly etching itself into the chipped marble slab of their lives for years now? I've considered taking bets and trying to beat the spread. I'm an asshole, I know. At least I'm a pragmatic asshole, and that has to be worth something. I hear the lights buzz loud as a 757's ghastly shriek next to the room's throbbing pulse marked Timex. I remember Narita, Green Street. That town in Japan like so many others with its polished and smooth temple jutting into the sky like a five year old with a toothy smile and a scheme for a quick buck. This place, where every morning at sunrise, Gotama's faithful shuffle in their thin and brilliant poverty, filled and content with their truths like four loaves of billowing yeast, fresh and crisp.
Catholicism never had that, whatever that is. Bread really is sacred. I know this after one particular Sunday at Mass where I broke the Host in my twelve year old hands, ate half, and tucked the other piece into my back pocket for my mother who sat in her rent controlled apartment wading through the sewage of the divorce proceedings of her own making. Strange considering I've only seen this woman four times in the past four years, and even then we may as well have been speaking, mumbling through plexi-glass.
I hear your shrill vibrato on the other end of the receiver. I remember the house we've built with our own hands...the knee high wrought iron fence with its black skin falling away in little flakes. The ivy stretching its tangled cursive. Yawning in-between the thin and twisted ribcage.
One particular Sunday at Mass, I broke the Host in my twelve year old hands, ate half, and tucked the other piece into my back pocket.
ReplyDeleteThis is a great line off of which to improv now. I would say, though, to stay away from conventional avenues (giving it to a needed mother, etc.). Rather, imagine some uncanny reason that the character offers for this theft.