I love reading, travel, and cooking. Years have raced past, everyone of them a wolf circling a kill. One tends to think that it’s a matter of scale, that the years used to stir slower at some point, but science would say their tempo has always been murderous. Black curtains have closed on so much of what I thought I would have done by now, I’m speaking here obviously of matters love and dating, but also private progress and things you can’t indeed hold measure to if you have any graciousness in you at all. I love outdoor activities like hiking and skiing. One time I observed a buzzed tailor attempt to make sense of what he had marked and pinned earlier in the day with a sober eye, and that night when I was watching him from my perch upstairs across the way, his livelihood was almost demolished by his own arm, his tearing apart the petite shop, in anger and disarray, certain it wasn’t him who chalked and pinned and cut something like this. He was looking at it all, so inebriated and confounded, like he couldn’t figure out who would have done it. That’s all of us, I think, looking back at what plans we had, screaming and holding our faces in our forearms. And thinking: who in the hell, of even remotely sound mind, would’ve planned and measured it like this? Rollerblading, I dreamed to say, is something I actually might get into, mostly for fitness reasons. Anyway, it was around the time of watching the mad tailor that I knew a dame with a pig’s heart, she’d call me, and I’d call her. Nothing inbetween us, just two people in the same neighborhood, and someone I found myself rooting for. I have every reason to believe this lady of fouled heart died at St. Vincent’s before they embarked tearing it down, because this was maybe fifteen years ago now, and she hasn’t called since then. The heart, or the valves, or whatever it was that they transplanted that came from a pig, seemed like it would take, her doctors were telling. She was living, breathing, walking around on the scene and attempting not to smoke or drink, calling me a duo times a week back then because I had stopped drinking around then. But then one day it seemed that abruptly these were now the years when her calls never came. That’s how the lady with the patched together heart of Frankensteined valves and stents came to vanish, to fade out so little by little, like an overcast morning. I am a bit of a beach person, I should mention, in case that’s your idea of a joy summer day. I spotted a beggar outside of The Vatican once, a woman so bowed and stooped and hunched, her palm a claw of suntanned hide now, permanently cupped and waiting for too little to be given too late. She looked up at me like she was casting a pox or curse and I was amazed, the beauty buried in her face, all the days that must’ve marched over her. We never think of it, do we, the way time marches on, the wreckage of how it has its way with us? It doesn’t care if you were one day a gorgeous pimp of the Jazz Age or a beautiful whore hunted by landed gentry and its angry wives and hounds. I also love biking and have played softball on my office’s team for two seasons now.
Adventures in Atomic Tourism: From the Vault
Bream Gives Me Hiccups: Restaurant Reviews from a Privileged
Nine-Year-Old: Fuddruckers and an Unreliable Fresh Friend
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