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Yesterday I jumped into the VW bug and just drove. I had only gone a few hundred yards when I realized that the windshield had gone rainbow-hued. I could still see through it, it was only that things took on varying colors, as if viewed through stained glass. Perfect vertical stripes, striating the windshield.
It would have been distracting, except I was already focused on the fact that the wheels had ceased to touch the ground. This proved disconcerting, but wasn’t a real detractor from my destination. Everything was still going fine, until I ran over a seagull.
Tough car.
**
I ran into an old friend the other day. I hadn’t seen him in years, and it turned out he’d grown another head. It was much like his old head had been, except a little older. Gray around the temples, you know? And with those little crows’ feet spindling about the eyes.
It’s strange when you see somebody you used to know. Thinking about all the times you shared, and now you realize you don’t know them at all, anymore. I never would’ve pegged Don for the type of guy to have two heads. Let alone wear shoes like that.
**
I hate rugs. Hate ‘em. The way they lie around, looking all superior. With their Oriental patterns and expensive woolen weaves. And all. Just because they can be moved around and shaken out and beaten they think they’re above everyone.
And their fuckin’ flowers and curlicues.
They hide things, rugs do. Stains on the linoleum. White splotches in the hardwood finish, where you dropped the nailpolish remover that time. The sweepings you don’t feel like putting in the dustpan. Bits of DNA and lint and evidence.
They’re still there, ya know. Even if you’re not.
Lamps can fuck off, too.
**
In Italy, it’s tomorrow already. They’re putting on the clothes they laid out the night before. They’re putting away their night airplanes and taking out their daytime ones. They’re not fooling around with the darkness anymore, not today. Not for hours yet.
They open curtains and spin the long rods on their Venetian blinds, which aren’t called that in Venice, and they let in the light, that Mediterranean light that’s not like the light we have here.
It’s like honey, they say, that light.
When you walk out onto your piazza, damn you, I’m still lying awake in our bed.
It would have been distracting, except I was already focused on the fact that the wheels had ceased to touch the ground. This proved disconcerting, but wasn’t a real detractor from my destination. Everything was still going fine, until I ran over a seagull.
Tough car.
**
I ran into an old friend the other day. I hadn’t seen him in years, and it turned out he’d grown another head. It was much like his old head had been, except a little older. Gray around the temples, you know? And with those little crows’ feet spindling about the eyes.
It’s strange when you see somebody you used to know. Thinking about all the times you shared, and now you realize you don’t know them at all, anymore. I never would’ve pegged Don for the type of guy to have two heads. Let alone wear shoes like that.
**
I hate rugs. Hate ‘em. The way they lie around, looking all superior. With their Oriental patterns and expensive woolen weaves. And all. Just because they can be moved around and shaken out and beaten they think they’re above everyone.
And their fuckin’ flowers and curlicues.
They hide things, rugs do. Stains on the linoleum. White splotches in the hardwood finish, where you dropped the nailpolish remover that time. The sweepings you don’t feel like putting in the dustpan. Bits of DNA and lint and evidence.
They’re still there, ya know. Even if you’re not.
Lamps can fuck off, too.
**
In Italy, it’s tomorrow already. They’re putting on the clothes they laid out the night before. They’re putting away their night airplanes and taking out their daytime ones. They’re not fooling around with the darkness anymore, not today. Not for hours yet.
They open curtains and spin the long rods on their Venetian blinds, which aren’t called that in Venice, and they let in the light, that Mediterranean light that’s not like the light we have here.
It’s like honey, they say, that light.
When you walk out onto your piazza, damn you, I’m still lying awake in our bed.
