It's All Right. That is, What Can You Do?

October 15, 2010
San Carlos, Mexico

Dear Blog,

There is a damsal fly with glittering eyes on a window pane. She is inviting me to dance with her, but I decline. I'm too shy. She is out of my league. Somewhere, unseen and silent, a cockroach gives birth and ponders the miracle. "It is good," she decides, and her brood scatters in all directions like bomb blast. My guardian spider, the patient sentry behind my toilet, is pressed flat against the wall like a polydactly hand. She is waiting, waiting to destroy a part of that goodness begat by old mother cockroach. She is murderous. She is a murderess. Outside the crickets sing happy songs in hard times, impaled on a scropion's sting. The stars shimmer because they have to. "O well!" they laugh and wink. The fan above my bed revolves grudgingly. It grumbles. Grrrrr. Grrrrr. Grrrrr. I thank it for the soft feathers of wind it dumps on me, but we do not speak the same language. Somwhere in Canada, I think, a maniac is chopping the feet off of women, above the ankles. He paints the toenails the color of damsal fly eyes, then carefully slips a pink sock over the seavered foot, nexting tossing it into the sea with a dramatic flourish from the top of a bluff, socked in itself by fog. It is message in a bottle that reads, "Shit is fucked up, isn't it?"

In such a horrible, wonderful way.

Be good, Blog, if you can.

Josh