October 2011 Archives

"I don't believe a single thing you've said for the past twenty minutes," she said. "In fact, I think there's good cause for me to doubt that you've told me the truth for the past three years." She glanced out the gauzy-curtained window, without turning her head, and raised the eggshell porcelain teacup to her cinnabar lips, again without moving her head beyond perfect stillness. Out on the lawn the wolves were busy tearing apart someone they'd caught in the forest, someone who'd been wearing tactical gear of some sort. Two of the beasts were tussling over a stubby machine gun, yanking it back and forth by its sling. She sipped her tea, returned her glance to my eyes, and replaced the teacup in its saucer, her movements precise, as though driven by fine-toothed clockwork. Although she'd paused, I knew it wasn't my turn to speak. The pause lengthened. "Did you really think you could take this house with a squad of ten?"

I felt my eyes blink. But beyond that, I couldn't muster a response. My hands remained where they were, frozen to the fine linen among the various bits of silverware and tea set. "I should really just put you out on the lawn," she said. "But the wolves are occupied, and it's so much better when they haven't eaten for awhile." Her two black eyes, set deep within that pale still face, regarded me with as much interest as the eight glossy eyes of a wolf spider. "I think we're done with tea, don't you?" Numb, cautious, I nodded. "And I think you should retire to your rooms for the afternoon. You look tired." I rose from the table, knocking a sterling fork off of it in the process. My hand whipped floorwards and caught it before it hit the parquet. "Such a shame," she said, and now that sculpted head did move, a slight shake of regret. The corners of her crimson mouth turned down, just a fraction. "You were my favorite, you know."

Galvanism at Villa Diodati After the Fall

There are certain periods of life--stretches between arbitrarily designated periods of Now and Then--that simply defy description. At least, they defy description by writers of my talent. I've never been more than an occasional diarist; the day-to-day chronicling of my life hasn't ever captured my own interest, so I fail to see how it might capture yours.

In brief summation, there has been: the collapse of commercial enterprises, chest pains, transient ischemic events, the loss of autonomy, and new, large, colorful tattoos, only the first and last of which affect me directly.

So it's been life: fast, and tumultuous, doing what life does, which is to produce unfolding and ever-increasing fractal patterns of itself, like a youthful fern uncoiling.

I'm among the young fern shoots now, which smell deeply green and have a peculiar, fresh-pollen tang to them. I'll be back, soon. With tales to tell.