Selections from the Box

I keep a big black plastic container next to my computer. It houses the contents of an old Marshall Fields box into which I tossed pages and pages of printouts that I don't want to throw away, but for which I don't have any immediate use. From time to time, I like to share excerpts with you all. This is one of those times.

This is the highlight from a love letter to Emma (I don't remember writing a love letter -- obviously it didn't work), probably circa Summer 1998:

"...joy and despair coupled are infinitely more preferable than existing in a prolonged desensitized state. However, I do not wish to employ you as my therapist, so I'll get to my point. In the coldest periods of the past year, every once in a while your presence could make me feel the pure happiness that I used to be able to feel. However incidental this phenomenon might have been, the fact remains that I am indebted to you for being the only one with that ability. So thanks."

Wow, dude, that's really good -- fantastic effort young Jon. It's a touch clinical, or maybe I mean academic, or maybe I mean reserved, but I don't know if I could do it much better.

Well...

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Three Links

Wow, I haven't done one of these in awhile. It's Summer's fault -- the season, not the Sanders woman. The weather's been pretty much gorgeous here, the food's been great, and the company varied and intriguing. But, geez, I'm so sick of that. Let's get to the season of dying already. Right?

These are interesting bits, in no particular order, although there is no true random:

Once they get a taste of blood, you have to put them down.

On The Road, Nov. 19, 2010

happy new (fiscal) year!!

Okay, it's your turn.

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At the pool

On these hot summer days she splashes in the shallow end. Warm sprinkles leap and dance, but no one else gets wet. Her feet remain on the bottom. When it gets too hot she reclines against the wall, feeling the concrete rough against her legs, and lets the water lap over her.

The deep end is filled with large shapes hungry for baby-tender meat. She won't turn her back on it. She knows that one day she will have to go out there.

On the pool deck she wraps her wrap and puts on her big sunglasses, fashion being the meringue of personality, a way to explore the self without abject terror, revealing only what she wants to be seen.

In the Far Reaches

In the far reaches of her mind, down beyond the twisting divide, a silken box bakes in haze. It holds her desire. It quivers, puddles, and bubbles at the top. It could burst, throwing hope limitless into the future.

He cannot quench her desire without giving himself to her, something he will not do. He does not trust what's inside of himself, an angry little boy.

How he fears that she gives herself to other men, ravishing them with her tongue, stroking with slender hands, her mouth on other hair, other flavors. How he hates.

He buys her desperate gifts. They, like their plastic wrapping, are destined to turn slow circles in the doldrums of the ocean.

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