the kidney that came out accidentally, wearing a tutu
In body he is here.
It came out accidentally. The good doctor has been busy. It was my way of saying, he’s in that office but don’t bother him. But it could have sounded like I was hinting he had dropped off the deep end, neurons askew in some red-soup cyclone. Or it could have sounded like I myself had gone off that very deep end. Like I’d seen the good doctor’s spirit wrangle out of his tiny henna body. There are many ways to say the same thing and many things can be said in the same way. Gödel, dear, it is a wonder we ever understand each other.
Please find below today’s minutes astutely recorded by Aphrodite, the brazen secretary for this organization of atoms into the sara that be:
There is much bustle and bump in the office here on hump day, residents being interviewed, doctors selling Girl Scout cookies, jerks with jerk agendas, and a whole lot of Roy Orbison going down in my office.
Give me coffee or give me death. Give me elephants on parade. They don’t know how dirty my hair is. They don’t care. There is a grammatical term for this groundhog oscillation. We are dancing, yes we are.
There was zero visibility on my way to work. An angel is in my cleavage (if I lean forward and squeeze). Wine-dark muse, bring on the pastries. Bill Murray is my brother.
Go here to see the best damn photo of a cabbage I never expected to see. I thought it was a fish. It might be a fish. There might be a fish on my shoulder. I’m too busy to look.
For some real fish, wriggle your fins over here.
Yesterday, after the library chased me out of the building by hurling papayas and charcoal at my head, I purchased Everything Is Illuminated so that I can read it before I see it. I don’t want to know anything about either the book or the movie, mind you. Why is everyone so freaked out by Elijah Wood’s eyes? Maybe I get off on feeling threatened. Maybe I like peanut butter on my thigh.
Last night, because the Chinese restaurant screwed us out of some rice, I played Operation with my roommates: I lay down on the kitchen table and let them slice into me with cleavers. When they touched on an organ I wanted to keep I buzzed sternly, like a rooster at the crack of sun.
Let it be known that Bill Murray is not really my brother; however, I would like to somersault down a steep verdant hill on a brisk day tipping into autumn with him. I would admit to him then that I do in fact think he is my father. In mind but not in body.
It came out accidentally. The good doctor has been busy. It was my way of saying, he’s in that office but don’t bother him. But it could have sounded like I was hinting he had dropped off the deep end, neurons askew in some red-soup cyclone. Or it could have sounded like I myself had gone off that very deep end. Like I’d seen the good doctor’s spirit wrangle out of his tiny henna body. There are many ways to say the same thing and many things can be said in the same way. Gödel, dear, it is a wonder we ever understand each other.
Please find below today’s minutes astutely recorded by Aphrodite, the brazen secretary for this organization of atoms into the sara that be:
There is much bustle and bump in the office here on hump day, residents being interviewed, doctors selling Girl Scout cookies, jerks with jerk agendas, and a whole lot of Roy Orbison going down in my office.
Give me coffee or give me death. Give me elephants on parade. They don’t know how dirty my hair is. They don’t care. There is a grammatical term for this groundhog oscillation. We are dancing, yes we are.
There was zero visibility on my way to work. An angel is in my cleavage (if I lean forward and squeeze). Wine-dark muse, bring on the pastries. Bill Murray is my brother.
Go here to see the best damn photo of a cabbage I never expected to see. I thought it was a fish. It might be a fish. There might be a fish on my shoulder. I’m too busy to look.
For some real fish, wriggle your fins over here.
Yesterday, after the library chased me out of the building by hurling papayas and charcoal at my head, I purchased Everything Is Illuminated so that I can read it before I see it. I don’t want to know anything about either the book or the movie, mind you. Why is everyone so freaked out by Elijah Wood’s eyes? Maybe I get off on feeling threatened. Maybe I like peanut butter on my thigh.
Last night, because the Chinese restaurant screwed us out of some rice, I played Operation with my roommates: I lay down on the kitchen table and let them slice into me with cleavers. When they touched on an organ I wanted to keep I buzzed sternly, like a rooster at the crack of sun.
Let it be known that Bill Murray is not really my brother; however, I would like to somersault down a steep verdant hill on a brisk day tipping into autumn with him. I would admit to him then that I do in fact think he is my father. In mind but not in body.
4 Comments:
a chinese resto without the rice is like me without a handbag and stilettos. just really wrong.
What would you do if Olive garden skimped on the breadsticks? If McDonalds left out the fries?
transience--your comment makes me smile. when i wrote that paragraph, i thought 'that's kind of sick. should i have kept that image to myself?' but you stuck to the point: no rice.
kim--i would probably do the same. i've already extended my creative sacrificial efforts elsewhere.
hello finnegan. a caddyshack would sort of strobe off to the side, behind a deeply rooted daisy.
i once went to Taco Bell and they were out of beans. worse yet to be out of tortillas, though.
i guess it couldn't hurt to send bill murray an invitation. i'll let you know if he accepts.
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