The Water Mountain
Th 7-24 10:50 AM
I've got acrid, burning, sulfrous, hellfire farts. My left shoulder still aches. Has been for weeks. I made cinnamon apple pork chops and honey-glazed carrots and seasoned fried potatoes for Shirelle and myself last night. She got too stoned to have sex. I finished the paper early today. My fucking clock got all fucked up again when I set the alarm, and I woke up an hour later than I planned. I didn't get to do any writing before school this morning. The bell rang. I have to go collect the kids. Maybe I'll interview one today. We have to review our vocabulary and check over our math before we go to the library. Then it will be lunch. I brought some kind of Lean Cuisine thing to microwave. I'd rather have a double bacon cheeseburger. Leo Politi was an LA area illustrator of many children's books. He did some water colors of Bunker Hill's glory days and the parks of LA in the thirties and forties. Many of his books are apparently out of print and hard to find. A new project. Oh, goodie.
[Here is a picture drawn in pencil from looking at a child's story book of a pig in tie and business suit heading out to the office it would seem, on two legs, using his umbrella as a cane, with a newspaper tucked under his arm, a fedora on his head, eyes and mouth closed, smiling contentedly, the sun peeking out from behind the clouds, a woman, the pig's wife, it would seem, looking on proudly from the porch of their house, it would seem.] What else? Luis is small for his age. He has close-cropped hair, thick eyelashes, a few scattered freckles. He's ten but doesn't read. I say to him, "Tell me something, Luis, I have to write to the bottom of the page, what should I write about?" He says, "Did you go to Water Mountain?" I ask what he means, but he doesn't answer. I ask him again, but he just stares at me. He has a few beads of sweat on his upper lip. Dark eyes, pupils indiscernible; I'm reflecting in them. Jesus explains that Luis wants to know if I've been to a waterfall. They find a picture of Niagara Falls in a book. "Oh, here? Yeah, I've been there. Why do you want to know?" I ask, but he just turns and walks away from me. I've got sixty-four more pages of The Shipping News. Call Grampa today. Do 15.
I've got acrid, burning, sulfrous, hellfire farts. My left shoulder still aches. Has been for weeks. I made cinnamon apple pork chops and honey-glazed carrots and seasoned fried potatoes for Shirelle and myself last night. She got too stoned to have sex. I finished the paper early today. My fucking clock got all fucked up again when I set the alarm, and I woke up an hour later than I planned. I didn't get to do any writing before school this morning. The bell rang. I have to go collect the kids. Maybe I'll interview one today. We have to review our vocabulary and check over our math before we go to the library. Then it will be lunch. I brought some kind of Lean Cuisine thing to microwave. I'd rather have a double bacon cheeseburger. Leo Politi was an LA area illustrator of many children's books. He did some water colors of Bunker Hill's glory days and the parks of LA in the thirties and forties. Many of his books are apparently out of print and hard to find. A new project. Oh, goodie.
[Here is a picture drawn in pencil from looking at a child's story book of a pig in tie and business suit heading out to the office it would seem, on two legs, using his umbrella as a cane, with a newspaper tucked under his arm, a fedora on his head, eyes and mouth closed, smiling contentedly, the sun peeking out from behind the clouds, a woman, the pig's wife, it would seem, looking on proudly from the porch of their house, it would seem.] What else? Luis is small for his age. He has close-cropped hair, thick eyelashes, a few scattered freckles. He's ten but doesn't read. I say to him, "Tell me something, Luis, I have to write to the bottom of the page, what should I write about?" He says, "Did you go to Water Mountain?" I ask what he means, but he doesn't answer. I ask him again, but he just stares at me. He has a few beads of sweat on his upper lip. Dark eyes, pupils indiscernible; I'm reflecting in them. Jesus explains that Luis wants to know if I've been to a waterfall. They find a picture of Niagara Falls in a book. "Oh, here? Yeah, I've been there. Why do you want to know?" I ask, but he just turns and walks away from me. I've got sixty-four more pages of The Shipping News. Call Grampa today. Do 15.
posted by johnz at 5:58 PM
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