The Unswung Bat

Friday, April 13, 2007
April 12th, 31:13 a.m.

I hear birds outside my window. It's snowing. Why, why, why must you always pretend? asked Ms. Kenton. And then I laid down and waited to complete.

Essays are dripping like rain off a black bough from my hands, and I'm not doing anything I particularly should but shivering a little and clicking the keys. Or the other side of that is I'm doing great, 85s and 90s great. I just waited, then turned back to the car, to drive off to wherever it was I was supposed to be.

I was Tommy D. in elementary school and Kathy in high school and Stevens at various points and Farraday in spare moments. Tommy was the rightest but, unfortunately, at odd moments and with the usual result of some violence. And he did let them take out his guts when the note came for his fourth donation. I even saw Ezra Pound twisting his mustache back there.

What's the meaning of that obfuscation? All you've done (this is the André from the universe where André lives in a one-floor house near San Francisco) is smush together a few characters you've thought about for essays. Farraday and Pound you barely even mentioned in any paper!

He will go on. He has learned to communicate with me across the zero-point barrier, by thinking the exact negative of the thoughts he wants me to hear. I haven't learned the trick. I can only assume he has gifted spies who watch what I'm writing, or a wildly accurate imagination. The opposite, I'm sure, to my fuzzy one.

Hell, I bet right now he's just bought some big callous-headed koi for the pond he worked on the last couple months that his wife smiles about. Well that's certainly something. There must be some trouble in his life, though--just money (a serious problem, but boring) or what?

Oh, he goes on, but he knows when everything starts to go wrong. The skid point, when it hits, shocks his limbs rigid as mine--makes me a good skier, terrible soccer player, running ability unaffected.

That shock to the limbs, I know, is what keeps him up all night or stuck in his garden looking at a koi pond. Oh hell. That's just not true. He forgot about staring into dark shallow water late into the night.

Or if you like, 7:13 the next morning.

And there's the pair my little essay-writer, you can pretend well enough to know it:

I can-
not go
on I
go on.

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