Maybe I have gotten to now.
From Some Stones Don't Roll
Ficmem at Kindle
Maybe I have gotten to now. It feels that way. We went out as we always do Saturday nights. You will remember yesterday was presaged doom-laden. But I watched and nothing like that transpired. Prescience is a chancy vanity, a Bardian scutcheon. Another strip of death material. There is nothing in now but now. It is the readiness that Hamlet, even sad Hamlet, knows is all. It is a state. It is being. With the drip. The traffic. Ready. No place to go. Billy Joe Shaver has a song I love that is not among his hits. We all have hits that are not the best of what we did. This is his celebration of Brenda light and lively and in it he speaks of there being nothing much to do and longs for her in the now that is so palpable. It is too good. My books are all around me. A stack of three sits between me and my monitor. Beyond the Psychoanalytic Dyad, Shakespeare A Biographical Handbook Hamlet. Ophelia was not crazy. That I know. Most probably the victim of rape. All women are. She states truth in her crazy rhymes. I do not understand scholarship. Traffic is knowledge. Hum is knowledge. Drip. And still no pigeons.
So Bill got dropped off at the Red Lion and went into the Den to hear her sing. That is what he said he wanted to do. It was dark. Early evening. Then he must have walked down the hill and gotten to George's apartment and they talked into the night about freedom. About free will. Or so the story went. Then the long blade serrated that miraculously missed the death artery by a millimeter and off into the night with the knife went our Bill an ordinary guy. Ordinary except when not ingesting whatever he was being given to keep from doing such things. His Mom and Dad are probably dead by now. I never knew them but I can see them peering out from some suburban door near Boston. The man had the nerve to call me after we finally found Bill four months later. He had run off with the serrated knife and we did not know where he was. He the dad wanted to know if I could sell the new guitar Bill bought the day he disappeared, the one I had driven him to Tony's in Amherst to find. You do not buy a guitar on the day you intend to end it all. You do not intend to end it all. It was all a matter of the pills. What gall. I mean about wanting the money Bill had spent. That would put you on pills. That would send you raging down the street stripped naked. Like Lucy Jordan.
Some Stones Don't Roll (FicMemOne by Stephen C. Rose) Kindle Edition
Ficmem at Kindle
Maybe I have gotten to now. It feels that way. We went out as we always do Saturday nights. You will remember yesterday was presaged doom-laden. But I watched and nothing like that transpired. Prescience is a chancy vanity, a Bardian scutcheon. Another strip of death material. There is nothing in now but now. It is the readiness that Hamlet, even sad Hamlet, knows is all. It is a state. It is being. With the drip. The traffic. Ready. No place to go. Billy Joe Shaver has a song I love that is not among his hits. We all have hits that are not the best of what we did. This is his celebration of Brenda light and lively and in it he speaks of there being nothing much to do and longs for her in the now that is so palpable. It is too good. My books are all around me. A stack of three sits between me and my monitor. Beyond the Psychoanalytic Dyad, Shakespeare A Biographical Handbook Hamlet. Ophelia was not crazy. That I know. Most probably the victim of rape. All women are. She states truth in her crazy rhymes. I do not understand scholarship. Traffic is knowledge. Hum is knowledge. Drip. And still no pigeons.
So Bill got dropped off at the Red Lion and went into the Den to hear her sing. That is what he said he wanted to do. It was dark. Early evening. Then he must have walked down the hill and gotten to George's apartment and they talked into the night about freedom. About free will. Or so the story went. Then the long blade serrated that miraculously missed the death artery by a millimeter and off into the night with the knife went our Bill an ordinary guy. Ordinary except when not ingesting whatever he was being given to keep from doing such things. His Mom and Dad are probably dead by now. I never knew them but I can see them peering out from some suburban door near Boston. The man had the nerve to call me after we finally found Bill four months later. He had run off with the serrated knife and we did not know where he was. He the dad wanted to know if I could sell the new guitar Bill bought the day he disappeared, the one I had driven him to Tony's in Amherst to find. You do not buy a guitar on the day you intend to end it all. You do not intend to end it all. It was all a matter of the pills. What gall. I mean about wanting the money Bill had spent. That would put you on pills. That would send you raging down the street stripped naked. Like Lucy Jordan.
Some Stones Don't Roll (FicMemOne by Stephen C. Rose) Kindle Edition
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