It’s Saturday, December 1, 1979. Valencia orange sunlight inflates the room where my father is kicking ten colors of crap out of me. I’m breathing like a goddamn Olympic sprinter as burgundy black bubbles drip from my mouth and my nose and percolate the sun-splashed mess beneath my hands and my knees. In my mind's eye I can see the elixir up ahead now. It’s like someone has ripped a goddamn Caspian of a hole in the wall for me to climb through. If only I’d seen it before. If only I can get there.
I’m that way sometimes when someone’s beating me daffy—my mind travels; moseys off into the goddamn wilderness, or swims out across the ocean to Australia, or some place far away like that—where nobody knows me. I’m getting pretty damned good at it too. Sometimes I drift so far from the bastard who’s bashing me, he thinks I’ve lost my marbles or had a stroke or something. Like now, he’s kicking and yelling and having a hernia and all, and I’m telling you this stuff all the while. ...
2007-05-11
22:05:18
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