"Yes, but does this Rocko, my supposed Italian loveboat motorbike escape fantasy, read? Is he . . .a reader??" I ask. Right before laughing at myself.
"That's all women care about: reading & textures," Matt says.
"No, they just think about the wave of some guy's hair while masturbating," says Xavier. "Anyway, he'll have read Howl, and think that makes him deep---you'll find this amusing."
"Right. Thanks: FOR CONSTRUCTING MY FANTASY LIFE," I say, right before silently confirming that all this is very true and fabricated.
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Today, I have discovered that the smoke detector in my apartment rings at high A, like an energy chime--nurtures your mind, with great thoughts. Also, if you slap your knee with a tuning fork, it too, is high A. Fuck, mechanical laughter, the sound of your reflexes bouncing off the walls of the room--it's like waking up, on your own, in an alternate universe, every day. There is another world. And it's filled with the low pitch of light, unopened Christmas presents, leftover olives packed in acidic water, and various dips. If I have a child, I am raising him or her on The Smiths, probably exclusively. He or she can find the eclectic span on his or her own, I'll give her the handlebars, it must be this way. I will also raise her on reversed concept of time by making her to be entirely nocturnal, like a cat, rabbit, or desert animal. Daylight will tire her. Babygirl will sleep on the loveseat under parted curtains, or, often, in a burrow, or den. Her hearing will be impeccable, for sensory compensation. She will eventually move past my nurture and command and just remain nocturnal all her life, simply to escape daytime heat. She'll always carry a flashlight, aim with intent to see. All her babysitters will be gay men, who threaten to fondle her ironically to which she'll only be able to laugh, saying, between hysterics, but I don't have any breasts!! My mother gave me a stereo--INSTEAD!! mon dieu. The sitters will then get very flustered when they look in the cupboard and discover she's once again devoured all the Lucky Charms and Cocopuffs, leaving them, with none. In return for these favourable interactions, she will teach them how to locate objects blindly using high bounced sounds: as the only flying mammal, a bat, does: navigate this, asshole!!. Then she'll hand them the can opener, and they'll dip into her preserves. Fuck, my child will be amazing. She'll be able to listen to Joy Division without blinking, without getting messed up or getting the urge to steal many, many packets of orange marmalade from diners while experiencing the hangover of her life. She'll write to you--often, saying But I don't want a lover, I just want to be seen in the back of your car. A friendship sadly lost? Well, this is true . . .and yet, it's false; she'll have seconds to spare.
What a fantastic post. I think you should write a novel about your daughter. Then at 35, have a son.
Posted by: Xavier Ames at December 20, 2005 10:25 AMfuck, xavier, I love my life right now: it's before noon, and I've already done the dishes, gone for a walk in my fur hat, bought a pack of clove cigarettes, which taste like candy to me, picked up a cabbage roll and five giant fresh figs from downstairs for breakfast and, AND gotten some writing done. Later, I will engage in photography. And, sooner, rather than later, I will have a bath, and smoke my cloves in said bath. Glory. xoxoxo