Dear Reader,
A sort of a story for you today, which I hope will amuse you. I hope it will be a nepenthe for your weariness and sorrow.
part one:
There was a concrete driveway that sloped away from the garage- it met a large pool of macadam.
It was not a lone Victorian with lace curtains.
part two:
I was not an orphan, in a high garret.
I lived on a high plain, far from everyone; and I had a radio. A large, 1950's one, with a lot of beguiling veneer. Late one night, listening close, and secretly, I heard pilots and static. Another time, I heard Language is a Virus, and it opened a wide space of possibility.
part three:
This is maybe not yet written. It might go like this: They moved away. They packed up a big, black automobile, and they moved. They left a lot of broken dishes and a rusted screwdriver. They left a worn down broom and a broken umbrella. They left a hole where a camellia bush had grown. They left a sprinkler. They left some bent wire hangers. They left two receipts and a torn photograph of a woman on a horse. They left a photo of a man waving from an ocean liner. They left a cassette tape and a bottle opener. They moved. Away. They packed up.
