Archive for July, 2009

Treading the tillage, I react with equanimity to the cloying requests from my brother to play snooker. I dither whither we travel in tandem, over the fallow land. In time, I shall become churlish as I know he is really a roué. His dalliances are made known to all who should know them. An earmark of my family is our debauchment. I am a misfit in that I do not impart my passions physically.

“You wag!” she cried at he quoth euphuistically from a bevy of needlessly elaborate, 16th century poems. “The dromedary soonest march through the desert, the tramp soonest hop the next train, teeming, tenuous, tenebrous.” Ho, ho, ho! The children cried. How funny that such prepossessing language should be ruined by excessive garniture! But just as they were merrily loping and laughing down the hall, the laggard steward set himself before them and bellowed, with great consternation “It’s teatime, ya’ grisly imps!”

A blustering rube from the purlieus was conscripted into the Union Army after making a galvanic speech accompanied by calliope encouraging his supernumerary colleagues to revolt against the Crown. Wearing a periwinkle blouse, hot pink brogues and an unkempt mop, the authorities easily identified him and wasted no time in sending him to battle where he could make no further agitation. The nameless authorities felt no contrition over their decision. It was only a peccadillo, only one maniac out of trillions.

Furtively, I stepped onto the proscenium and made the announcement I’d been dying to disclose. I was a dipsomaniac, but not without compunction for the shame I would bring to my family with this corroboration of their darkest fears. Of course, I had never been obstreperous. I’d done as I was told. And yet, I could not live freely until I tendered unto myself carte blanche and acceptance through open expression and honesty. I was not sententious as I said it. It was not incumbent on me to go on long. “I’m a dipsomaniac!” I yelled with open arms and a face brimming with fresh tears and the smile of a one who had freed himself from the shackles of secrecy and abiding thirstiness. “Now get me a drink!” I cried.


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A fitful union of foes

Fighting has its high points, for it healthfully releases steam. But fighting has its low points, for not all fighters’ steam-releasing mechanisms are compatible or useful or comprehensible, given the situation and the players. Some people learn the hard way, and some people are hard-wired oddly. Fighting is foolish. Fighting’s not fun. But if we must fight, please don’t bring your gun… and know that I’m not good at interacting with people who show no affect. We operate by different kinds of machinery. Without reference points to bind us, to what reality do we tend? I clutch for straws; I pine, I flounder. Mr. Lies!

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