I’ve been at a loss this week what to write. I thought about Brexit as I haven’t mentioned that but I thought there is no way that I want to hear any-more about it. We have two years of listening to professional pish talkers talk pish. Any debate only encourages them to debate so I won’t be going down that road.
Continue reading “Week 119 – Sleep Deprivation, Stewart Granger And Brain Scooping.”
Within the breath of the hospital door click, he was both alive and dead. A Schrodinger’s situation. He insisted on the glass of water and I had not wanted to go. But I did. He didn’t like me seeing him in that state–which seemed so unlike everyone’s perception of him, he was not the regular vain sort of actor one would think of. Or at least I never saw him that way.
I’m driving west into the setting sun on streets I’ve known for over 50 years in a car I bought brand new seven years ago. I’ve been driving for fifty-eight of my seventy-three years.
I don’t really know Carson. I mean I know him, everybody knows him but he’s not my friend. It used to be that I wouldn’t be caught dead spending time with him. Now… I dunno, I wonder if he’d take me.
Carson is one of just three retarded kids at Robert F. Kennedy High School. The rest are too retarded for public school; they go to Strathmore Academy which is a “Special School” just up the street from where I live.
We move forward, dragging our punished, callous-covered feet in the vague direction of a hypothetical salvation. It is freezing cold, and this spiteful European wind spits rain into our faces. The storm strengthens, and the droplets turn to hail stones, which sting our cheeks like the words of the people who line the roads to curse us as our pathetic procession shuffles through their towns. “Stay Out!” and “We Don’t Want Your Problems!” scream the placards. “Stay Away Terrorists!” reads another forceful imperative. I look at the scholarly looking woman in wire-framed spectacles holding the sign, and wonder if I should stop and offer her advice in how to recognise real jihadists, since she’s clearly a novice.
Melanie’s boyfriend Ray began drinking as soon as he moved in. At first it was just a few after work. Then it was four, maybe six. She liked to cook, but he always wanted to go out. She was tired of every restaurant within 10 miles, but whatever, he paid. He always made a big deal of paying. Pulled out his worn brown wallet, the one he said was “top of the line.” He always said that. His things were “professional grade” and “top of the line.” He “spared no expense.”
Week 118 has been thrust upon us. We had no option but to accept and roll with it!
Another awful link coming up.
Continue reading “Week 118 – Golf, Quidditch And Mrs Doubtfire”
In a Tel-Aviv writing workshop I became friendly with another aspiring writer who, it turned out, lived two streets away from mine. Proximity and vocation synergized to cement our friendship. We commented – politely—on each other’s work, as well as that of the others in the group. We both were practioners of the soft criticism school, as opposed to some in the group who favored a hard-line approach to stimulate writing improvement.
“Your face looks ugly when you’re thinking, Haverson, so knock that shit off.” Flo eyed him as she angled and exhumed a Hell Energy from the small fridge, then she and her implied neglect left the finished basement, climbing the carpeted stairs with such pomp that the two men looked away and shook their heads.
Joel Haverson leaned over Flo’s handcrafted bar and whispered to Earl, “She’s going through some things.”
Continue reading “We Love You, Flo Haverson by Jeff Blechle”
I am both partial to and particular about angora sweaters. I like to wear them without a bra. I imagine that is what it would feel like to press my breasts against a hairy chest. I am obsessed with hairy chested men, and it all started with Burt Reynolds in Cannonball Run. I was 9 when I saw the movie on TV one Saturday afternoon. I’ve been a Reynolds and hairy chest fanatic ever since. Even when I go out dancing with the girls, I go braless in my angora. Once I braved going braless to work. While I found it liberating, it was also distracting.
literally stories 