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He was a strange and complex man. He had peculiar tastes. He was never at peace with the world.

The only way to know that you were his intimate was if he treated you as roughly as he treated himself. If, at certain pitched moments, he savaged himself and you at the same time and to the same degree, then you knew you were in, for better or worse.

This, you knew, has how love, or whatever it was, worked with him. The fact was that he was at once incredibly tolerant of and incredibly impatient with human nature. His optimism was abyssally pessimistic, and vice versa. At privileged moments, his speech would take on the dark lyricism that comes of such cross-wiring, such implicit contradiction. At other moments, he would remain silent, which amounted almost to the same thing.

You would have stopped, if you knew then what you know now, and said “But when and where did I sign on for that? Can you produce a contract? A duly notarized document?”

“Certain processes and functions,” he would have responded, “are as implicit in human relations as the tree is implicit in this garden, the squirrels in these trees, the train on those tracks.”

“This is a cross to bear,” he would have said. “But haven’t we all got to have one?” he would have asked.

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February 7, 2010 at 4:51 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

7 Responses

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  1. Another truth was that in the end, after the fact, apres, he never thought he’d have to face consequences, have to answer for anything, or if he did he felt that cleverness, deception, and the word “complicated” would see him through. He knows this about himself, to be sure, which is why he is so prone to banging walls and other assorted, or equally distorted, objects.


    February 7, 2010 at 5:37 pm

    • He resents the film “It’s Complicated,” but he does not resent breakup sex. He does know all about himself, so much about himself, and only wishes he knew less but more efficiently.

      He remembers the used bookstore in Morristown, the sports bar with the volleyball court that they drove past to get there. He remembers spending all of his money on books there with her, age 17, things that they would sell later, lots of them when they moved to London. He remembers the smell of it, what the bookstore clerks looked like, and what it was like to put the bag of books in the trunk of the Toyota.


      February 8, 2010 at 1:00 am

      • She is not good at this, too slow. She writes the old fashioned way, in her head, thinking of those rats at Jay Street and how she’d take them over the rats of London in a heartbeat.

        She misses home. Yankee stadium. 1999. Once, during the playoffs, (his father was the sort of man who made sure his company had Yankee tickets), they were supposed to meet in the box at 8pm and she cried because she couldn’t get through the crowd quick enough to get to him. He caught a ball that night and it left an imprint in his hands for days.

        He has the nicest hands.

        The baby is starting to cry. She struggles to think of something quick to say before she must go comfort it. All she can come up with are the words: gutters and foul balls and imprints.


        February 9, 2010 at 12:15 am

  2. I just wanted to say I enjoy what’s going on here, the blog as a whole. That’s a funny thing to preface a sentence with: “I just wanted to say…”.


    February 8, 2010 at 12:48 am

    • Thanks Benoit. Have gotten lots of shit for the blog of late, but really don’t care. It’s my notebook… If I want to do it like this I will…


      February 8, 2010 at 1:02 am

  3. I’m with Benoit.


    February 8, 2010 at 4:25 am

    • Thank you Christian.


      February 8, 2010 at 9:30 am

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