Checking my messages, there were five calls from Mr Urgent — two from Tuesday, two from Wednesday, one from this morning. All his calls were marked "urgent," but never yet has he said what work he needs me to do.
Whatever it is, though, gosh, it sure seems urgent.
Haven't mentioned her in a while, so you might be under the stupid misimpression that I'm recovered, or at least recovering from Sarah-Katherine. Nope.
Usually there's a week between letters, and usually I'd wait for a reply, but even more usually I'm an idiot so yesterday I wrote her a letter, long and idiotically heartfelt. This morning I wrote her another letter, short and sort of explaining/apologizing for yesterday's letter.
And it gets worse: not only was I damned fool enough to write two letters, I also mailed them both, soon as I'd written them.
♦ ♦ ♦
Now it's twilight, as I look out over the tops of all the other rent-by-the-week hotels on the block. The McMillan is the tallest of them, so the view stretches pleasantly.
A mile or so in the distance, the hills are bathed in the approaching sunset. Houses and trees are silhouetted against a pale blue, darkening sky. Toward the north side of the hill, amidst a cluster of recent development, is a large house that's burning down.
It's so far in the distance, I can't see whether the fire trucks are there, but brilliant yellow flames are dancing like Baryshnikov, and thick, gray smoke rises slowly to the setting sun. As I said, it is a rather pleasant view.
From Pathetic Life #25
Wednesday, June 5, 1996
This
is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago,
called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but
might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting
things, so parental guidance is advised.
Savage!
ReplyDeleteI wear clothes. My thumb is opposable.
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