Dear Potential Employer,
I’m married to my job. When you hire me, we get married. I am a plain but devoted wife. I wear fresh-ironed, simple-patterned dresses, and bake unhealthy but delicious cakes and cookies. You gorge yourself upon them all morning, idly turning the pages of the N. California edition of the New York Times, face smeared with a vacant, sugar-stunned expression. Knocking back your untouched coffee in one shot, you stagger out the door, downhill to the office. You are mine.
GUEST POSTSCRIPT: I’m all atremble here squattin — literally squattin, and no I don’t mean squatting — in the very buttock-trough of our dear leader — I mean, øur dear Ms. Premientoe, sorry. Yes, atremble, yes, postscript, yes it feels delicious. BREADSTIXXX OUT.
This morning I saw a man leaning over the curb, cigarette burning in his hand, trying to throw up. Lots of frisky li’l princesses and dudes think that New York is the only place in the world where you can be a young person thinking about literature and then see an old guy trying hard to barf at 9 a.m. Not so! Immediately afterward, I saw a crate of jicama for sale; I’d never considered what jicama looked like in its raw, unpeeled form. What a city!
I got to go to a “studio visit” today; another thing I think about New Yorkers doing and then occasionally, disdainfully thinking, “ah, my corpulent, self-loathing ex-friend in San Francisco never gets to do this!” It was OK. The artist was OK. The person I went with bought two pieces of art. Paintings on paper. With text. “Very Sprockets-y.”
[Memo to myself: maybe download or buy the CD of this album by D. Charles Speer, of the No Neck Blues Band, called After Hours. Some songs on his website. Nice country-psych.]