Dear Wigleaf:
Birds and orange juice glasses fly. Cell phones sink. You can drink bourbon from a woman's shoe. I have confirmed. Other confirmations: Frangible plates of ice skewed up and broken on the window glass, crystal columns, feathery fingers, or: it is cold. Me is my brain, its axons and dendrites, kitchen forkings and chalky bulbs of jalapeno pills, golden soups and gray soups, occasional Jacuzzis of serotonin. My thoughts and anti-thoughts and words. Everything else is a passenger ship, the U.S.S. Lovelace. Every day I want you to hunt me out and bellow, "Do you realize you are a passenger ship, and this bitch is going down?!" If you can't locate me, find my silhouette. It will listen. If it flickers the gaze of a stupid opossum or simply says, uh, no, slap my silhouette right in its smart, watery-eyed, japed and lathered, opossumy face. Eternal cycle of organized warfare, confirmed. Crow picking orange bits from vomit dried on side of church van, confirmed. Shuffling work-walk (down university hallways) of crazy men, confirmed. Tendency to tell stories, confirmed. Lust, confirmed. Deer as generally enviable and invisible, confirmed. Ever tell you I was born on a houseboat? I didn't? Well, lause, now I just did. I knowd ye would care. We didn't have timeouts; when I was in trouble—and I was often in trouble—my mother would lift me into her sweet arms, walk onto the back porch, pause to see that Memphis sun skittering out fat and low and loud, and drop me fully clothed into the Mississippi River. I sank first, no doubt quivering a little. Then I swam, boys and gals. Helloooo… I mean to say I can still swim. Although my venison freezer is admittedly shy and November smokes and chatters hoarsely to Indiana and I can (and will) find a woman's shoe. Yes, I did lose one (or I mean to say threw upon the roof). But like phone calls, salt shakers, or livers (or is it spleens?), they come in two. 

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Read SL's story, "Sit."

w i g · l e a F               12-21-10                                [home]