I am going to break every radio in America. Tomorrow, I will smoke every last cigarette- not the other nineteen, just the last. When I grow up, every last battery will die or quit up- both in some cases. When I am ready to quit up, one thousand pigeons, all female, will quit up- or die- with me as well.
I’m not afraid of or for certain women in my life any more: a seriousness, perhaps, they sense about me. One which says, I will neither mess with you nor be messed with easily. A shaky foundation upon which I found- I don’t know, my ego, or whatever you have when you decide you aren’t worth your own hatred. Or, that it isn’t worth hating yourself. Whichever.
Some men think good women- wife-making women, say- go to church, or that you would only meet them in church, only. They are fools. Utter bashful fools.
What I am doing right now is just trying not to lose the scent of something special from a time before I knew how to speak. The first trouble I got in was for writing- carved a thin rail H on the bannister of the stairs. Unsure of the human anatomical equivalent of the bannister, or staircase. Arm, perhaps.
Perhaps.
The H is just because I will turn twenty one next year and have not gotten any new scars on my skin since the bic lighter and paper clip job back in Boca Raton. The thing is I don’t admit to being happy until six months have passed- need time to think. But I had one good weekend in 2007, and its mark on my hip is fading, and something similar is happening with my memory maybe.
When we fetishize time like this- charm bracelets, photographs, ritual scarification- we turn into beasts like these. One day, maybe no more vacations- or radio signals, car batteries, ghost stories.
You don’t need church to find a wife. Everybody knows how it happens. One day, in your mid-thirties, a one-legged dwarf approaches you with a pink telephone and says, It’s for you. You answer the telephone. You receive directions to the wife tree and on proper technique- there is a certain way to shake the branches which guarantees a wife will fall out.
I think if I haven’t forgotten English completely in ten years I will be very disappointed with myself.
