Exclamation
We have received a hefty envelope, crinkled on the edges with a scrape exposing the contents in a sad frown-shape, and after opening it we were a bit flabbergasted: the entire thing, pages and all, were coated in a sort of invisible jelly like substance, not quite viscous and not quite solid, that we are almost positive is some form of physical joy. Page after page dripped with the stuff! A smattering of it collected on one of our researcher's desks and wouldn't you know it, the thing began to laugh! A formica-topped desk, cheap as they come, was roaring with laughter! It doesn't even have a mouth or vocal cords. Needless to say, we feel that this joy, or whatever it might be, leaks from the words like water from a pressed sponge and this happy accident happened as a result of the careless postal service - regardless, we are ecstatic to be dripping with it ourselves, to feel our hands and fingertips coated with it, and we are now fully enamored with it.
The writer writes:
We have received a hefty envelope, crinkled on the edges with a scrape exposing the contents in a sad frown-shape, and after opening it we were a bit flabbergasted: the entire thing, pages and all, were coated in a sort of invisible jelly like substance, not quite viscous and not quite solid, that we are almost positive is some form of physical joy. Page after page dripped with the stuff! A smattering of it collected on one of our researcher's desks and wouldn't you know it, the thing began to laugh! A formica-topped desk, cheap as they come, was roaring with laughter! It doesn't even have a mouth or vocal cords. Needless to say, we feel that this joy, or whatever it might be, leaks from the words like water from a pressed sponge and this happy accident happened as a result of the careless postal service - regardless, we are ecstatic to be dripping with it ourselves, to feel our hands and fingertips coated with it, and we are now fully enamored with it.
The writer writes:
Over your eyelids.
and open them, with fingertips in the morning and I'll be outside of them and whispering "shhh"
Just come and pick me up and it'll be good and stop. Fall asleep and keep rewinding and doing over and it will turn on its own and be good and learn a lot perhaps maybe, sometimes it just needs to be learned, but together together, always together. Separate is bent and broken and not really worth it because I've laughed alone and had the dinners by myself and its fine on its own but really, what's a me worth if you aren't there too to see it, Dearest. Oh Dearest, sweetest of all and always so warming.
We'll move mouths and close together perhaps, in the sun with the windows open and loud loud and wind blowing in through them, and push hard then soft and oh our fingers braided again, so nice together.
And eyelids, inside are projections and open them to find the same scene, as it was. We know, we know. And they should clap their goddamn hands because we got it again, happy and its so warm and held close in our hands clasped to one another's chests leaping and hopping inside behind the ribs, oh
The first fragment trails off there, and what a place to end! "oh" lowercased and unpunctuated. Is that not the correct and most respectful way to treat an exclamation? Rather than calling attention to it via the elongated icicle with its tiny droplet dangling below (!) the writer leaves it alone, treats it with the same ease as any other word.
The second fragment, which we will not reproduce, contains what we have found to be a prose translation of a famous poem. We won't reproduce it because of obvious reasons (and several non-obvious ones: it was written by hand and we have made it a rule never to digitize anything so precious) though we are confident that simply listing several of the words used ought not to harm the integrity of the original piece. The list reads nicely aloud, too, so do try a proper recitation: fingers, crisp, littleness, wrists, silence, different, were, arms, folded, quietly, leaf, Spring, mirror, slenderer, lips, gestures, voice. Is it readily apparent yet? How about the last sentence? "or it is perhaps you who with my voice are playing." See, it is easy! The exclamation has its source, its wonderful and infinite source.
It continues on:
And tap tap tap it goes, away with the keyboard and fingers. Pen scratching on paper again, immediate and final looking. Slanted cursive handwriting, trying to make a G look like more official, with more of a hook and more of a sympathetic face. Gs never look sympathetic.
That's all that is contained on that leaf of paper, and wow! So much care, so much exclamation over a single letter. We continue, eagerly, along a separate but equal digression:
and open them, with fingertips in the morning and I'll be outside of them and whispering "shhh"
Just come and pick me up and it'll be good and stop. Fall asleep and keep rewinding and doing over and it will turn on its own and be good and learn a lot perhaps maybe, sometimes it just needs to be learned, but together together, always together. Separate is bent and broken and not really worth it because I've laughed alone and had the dinners by myself and its fine on its own but really, what's a me worth if you aren't there too to see it, Dearest. Oh Dearest, sweetest of all and always so warming.
We'll move mouths and close together perhaps, in the sun with the windows open and loud loud and wind blowing in through them, and push hard then soft and oh our fingers braided again, so nice together.
And eyelids, inside are projections and open them to find the same scene, as it was. We know, we know. And they should clap their goddamn hands because we got it again, happy and its so warm and held close in our hands clasped to one another's chests leaping and hopping inside behind the ribs, oh
The first fragment trails off there, and what a place to end! "oh" lowercased and unpunctuated. Is that not the correct and most respectful way to treat an exclamation? Rather than calling attention to it via the elongated icicle with its tiny droplet dangling below (!) the writer leaves it alone, treats it with the same ease as any other word.
The second fragment, which we will not reproduce, contains what we have found to be a prose translation of a famous poem. We won't reproduce it because of obvious reasons (and several non-obvious ones: it was written by hand and we have made it a rule never to digitize anything so precious) though we are confident that simply listing several of the words used ought not to harm the integrity of the original piece. The list reads nicely aloud, too, so do try a proper recitation: fingers, crisp, littleness, wrists, silence, different, were, arms, folded, quietly, leaf, Spring, mirror, slenderer, lips, gestures, voice. Is it readily apparent yet? How about the last sentence? "or it is perhaps you who with my voice are playing." See, it is easy! The exclamation has its source, its wonderful and infinite source.
It continues on:
And tap tap tap it goes, away with the keyboard and fingers. Pen scratching on paper again, immediate and final looking. Slanted cursive handwriting, trying to make a G look like more official, with more of a hook and more of a sympathetic face. Gs never look sympathetic.
That's all that is contained on that leaf of paper, and wow! So much care, so much exclamation over a single letter. We continue, eagerly, along a separate but equal digression:
On a lighter note, clouds have descended far below the horizon putting on a blue show of sky for the eyes to enjoy this morning. The remaining clouds, and there are very few of them, are hanging in a sort of staccato abruptness that purely, and easily causes a sense of ease and purity for any humans or animals that care to look up. Due in part to my horrible temperament these past few days, I believe much of this stems from the fact that early November should always have a few sunny days packed in right away before the grave cold sets in, I resign myself back to bed. The cold must set itself in, its only nature, besides---winter is for wintery things: the needing of sweaters and jackets, the comfort of a warm body listlessly lying inches away in an over-blanketed bed, the fruitful handshake of a new found friend, compassion and indifference all at once.
So we drove instead of sitting still. We drove south. We started the drive at 5, leaving us 6 hours to get to Los Angeles with time to have some fun. Sun setting as we get off the 101 and head for the 5 freeway, dozing off to sleep. The car's speakers only worked up front, and we only had the crummy Best of the 80's tape from the Goodwill, with the front seat passenger's hand gripping and saving the Gary Neuman for later as a welcome into downtown Los Angeles, lovely. The cows stunk their usual stink and the Apricot Tree was lovely as it ever is. Thought of a prior stop there, the sandwiches we ate, the photos people always posed for under her favorite lunchbox (they have a lunchbox collection at the Apricot Tree). I was sleepy though on account of being up the night before late coupled with waking up too early and had a long day of work and then the prospect of sitting still in a humming car for a few hours. Momentous. All was right, things were aligned. The stretch of 5 kept imitating itself and N. said "what will I do when we pass my ex's old exit in Orange County?" A chorus of responses chime up from all seats: "spit!", "middle finger!", "throw a quarter, she hated the laundry mat, and anyone that can't stand to do their own laundry with the rest of the world isn't worthwhile. Throw a quarter out!", and my own humble and passive aggressive submission of: "just blow a kiss". The decision was made, he would dump a bottle of water out in a fit of jumbled symbolism, and blow the kiss. We, of course, didn't pass the exit that night because we were staying just north, in Glendale. Beautiful Glendale!
Had a realization that wanting the past to present itself means not really paying much mind to the present, which I was in at the restaurant, and I wasn't having fun. I was not having fun because I was wanting something that was gone to be back again, and I was delusional. I should have walked home. Instead, I cheered up, joined the jokes, hooted and hollered, had too much shitty coffee and ate my sandwich with my friends; envious the whole time of the couple kissing in the corner.
The house we were staying in was beautiful. Classic Los Angeles architecture, all the flourishes of taste and extravagance (not to mention an eclectic mixture of different times and places: Spanish Colonial Maine Tudor Ranch-style with Roman Columns and Doric touches here and there with some surprising and beautiful built-ins ala the Craftsman movement), and a nice two bedroom bungalow in the backyard, complete with useless heater and lumpy mattresses to sleep on. I picked an orange (or maybe tangerine?) from the tree and ate it greedily before bed. Someone forgot to flush the toilet so when I went I didn't flush either then we all agreed that since it was yellow we would all let it mellow, and see how long we could go accumulating the urine of us all. One bowl filled with our mutual waste. It was outlandish and vulgar, but exactly the kind of thing I needed, and need. Just a year ago I would have been typically prudish about any sort of talk relating to a bathroom - people simply go in there and come back out, and no one discusses any of the in-betweens. Well, "let's mix our pee!" sounded perfectly right. Though someone blew it and flushed due to an unbreakable 24 year habit of hygiene. It was understandable, but only just so.
We needn't continue with this string of thought - we have our image to lean our tired body up against: the combined waste of a group of people, intermingling in a porcelain bowl. The Research Institute of Inane Triviality has never before been in receipt of such a solid image! What does it mean? How does it relate to an exclamation? Allow us to present this last fragment from this wondrous load:
So we drove instead of sitting still. We drove south. We started the drive at 5, leaving us 6 hours to get to Los Angeles with time to have some fun. Sun setting as we get off the 101 and head for the 5 freeway, dozing off to sleep. The car's speakers only worked up front, and we only had the crummy Best of the 80's tape from the Goodwill, with the front seat passenger's hand gripping and saving the Gary Neuman for later as a welcome into downtown Los Angeles, lovely. The cows stunk their usual stink and the Apricot Tree was lovely as it ever is. Thought of a prior stop there, the sandwiches we ate, the photos people always posed for under her favorite lunchbox (they have a lunchbox collection at the Apricot Tree). I was sleepy though on account of being up the night before late coupled with waking up too early and had a long day of work and then the prospect of sitting still in a humming car for a few hours. Momentous. All was right, things were aligned. The stretch of 5 kept imitating itself and N. said "what will I do when we pass my ex's old exit in Orange County?" A chorus of responses chime up from all seats: "spit!", "middle finger!", "throw a quarter, she hated the laundry mat, and anyone that can't stand to do their own laundry with the rest of the world isn't worthwhile. Throw a quarter out!", and my own humble and passive aggressive submission of: "just blow a kiss". The decision was made, he would dump a bottle of water out in a fit of jumbled symbolism, and blow the kiss. We, of course, didn't pass the exit that night because we were staying just north, in Glendale. Beautiful Glendale!
Had a realization that wanting the past to present itself means not really paying much mind to the present, which I was in at the restaurant, and I wasn't having fun. I was not having fun because I was wanting something that was gone to be back again, and I was delusional. I should have walked home. Instead, I cheered up, joined the jokes, hooted and hollered, had too much shitty coffee and ate my sandwich with my friends; envious the whole time of the couple kissing in the corner.
The house we were staying in was beautiful. Classic Los Angeles architecture, all the flourishes of taste and extravagance (not to mention an eclectic mixture of different times and places: Spanish Colonial Maine Tudor Ranch-style with Roman Columns and Doric touches here and there with some surprising and beautiful built-ins ala the Craftsman movement), and a nice two bedroom bungalow in the backyard, complete with useless heater and lumpy mattresses to sleep on. I picked an orange (or maybe tangerine?) from the tree and ate it greedily before bed. Someone forgot to flush the toilet so when I went I didn't flush either then we all agreed that since it was yellow we would all let it mellow, and see how long we could go accumulating the urine of us all. One bowl filled with our mutual waste. It was outlandish and vulgar, but exactly the kind of thing I needed, and need. Just a year ago I would have been typically prudish about any sort of talk relating to a bathroom - people simply go in there and come back out, and no one discusses any of the in-betweens. Well, "let's mix our pee!" sounded perfectly right. Though someone blew it and flushed due to an unbreakable 24 year habit of hygiene. It was understandable, but only just so.
We needn't continue with this string of thought - we have our image to lean our tired body up against: the combined waste of a group of people, intermingling in a porcelain bowl. The Research Institute of Inane Triviality has never before been in receipt of such a solid image! What does it mean? How does it relate to an exclamation? Allow us to present this last fragment from this wondrous load:
How they exclaimed to one another, after fruitless attempts that left them both red in the cheeks and feeling so inadequate and ashamed, one night on the floor of that goddamned living room, finally, they smiled and both together said "Oh honey! We fit! We fit!" and it worked, they worked. Moving and laughing and her hand across her mouth and his mouth across her forehead. Smeared and
(It's something about the body, we suspect.)
