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Dear Wigleaf,
I am writing you this letter on the back of a
wine bottle label here in Socrates Sculpture Park.
Forgive the handwriting, as Plato's foot is wobbly,
all I could find to lean onto and seemingly a size
nine. Via projector onto a brick wall, we are watching
The Red Balloon (1956). I'd comment on this wine being
Spanish and the movie being French except that I am
drinking bourbon from a hooch I smuggled in. It's hot
here and I'm trying to remember what life was like the
first time I saw this movie, I think I was eating
french fries. You ever think about the first time you
went into a greasy spoon diner? Life got better after
those fries.
I spent this past week at what we writers get to
sometimes attend in the summer, known as Space Camp.
(boy are my thighs tired. Mmm, bourbon).
How did the Romans keep their toenails looking so
neat without clippers? Plato's foot I'm leaning over
here is incredibly well pedicured for fourth century
grooming, maybe it was the olive oil. Ah well, summer
is indeed getting on and it's time to get back to the
real world where I blog from the perspective of a sled
dog on the Iditarod for money. We live in New York but
the house is called Fort Worth, let me know if you're
ever in town.
Give em hell, kids.
Bisoux,
Nicolle Elizabeth
- - -
Photo detail on main page courtesy
of Naked Eyes.
Read NE's story, "Knock Knock."
w i g · l e a F
08-07-08
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