skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Monday, 11 September
The Evening Boringness In The West
(I'm proud to announce that, in a desperate attempt to make my utterly boring weekend interesting, I convinced noted author Cormac McCarthy to write this Monday's blog post! Thanks, Corm!)
Behold the husband. Born on a black Thursday middawn some 37 years slid into the past, straight back straight as an alder trunk, fetal now as then in the belly, curled into a leather womb. He watched the baseball game with his face cold and flat as a spade. He might have been watching for hours or years or times beyond reckoning and still he sat and endured, as if hewn from the unnameable basalt underpinning this shatterable world. Red Sox games are like that, he said and his wife said I think so too. She sat with her Gordian yarn unweaving the skein and reweaving it into that which only her fingers knew.
We oughta get dinner, in a pocket of silence after Coco Crisp had been caught stealing.
I reckon, he said, and spat.
Dont you spit on that carpet, she said.
I wont no more. He spat on the carpet and said Lets go get some dinner then.
Going into the restaurant they then sat down and they ordered from the waiter and the waiter said Okay let me get that for ye and he presently brought them the flesh and they ate it as man has been eating flesh since the sky wore a younger dress and our grandfathers danced in the skirts. The husband and his steadfast wife chewed and chewed the meat, hewing it with heavy knives, wielded with no uncertain skill and when they finished the meat he spat on the carpet.
Dont you spit on that damn carpet, she said again and he said Damn it, I wont as he spat on the carpet. You are one hellcat, I say, he said and she said Dont you swear, and he said All right I wont damn it, and he spat on the carpet.
The waiter returned with the tab and said Ill be ye cashier when youre of a mind to it. All right, he said. The bill was too high and the husband got took of a mind for a gutting. A quick swipe of the blade through the mans fascia and he would wear his guts for garters or play them standupbasslike with a rhythm on the downbeat and in the end he did not do that and he undertipped the waiter a good five percent and he walked out of the restaurant with a feeling in his chest like blind fish swam there in its dark waters and humors.
Presently they returned home, husband and wife, each silent as apothecaries in dust and they sat down back again in their places that they had chosen years ago and which were beyond change or reckoning.
Well we could watch Poseidon, I suppose, she said.
I reckon we could, he said. It has that Kurt Russell.
I know it.
All right then, damn it, then put it in I suppose, he said. Dont you start up with that swearing again, she said. I wont, he said, and spat on the carpet. They put in the movie and watched it and the narcotic force of its being crept into their souls like understanding stole into Barabbas on the cross.
She said, This is a terrible movie. It nearly makes me want to die, I think. It very nearly.
And he said, I know it. I do. They sat for a time under the bowl of heavenblack as it spun around them in a gyre older than the emptiest tomb that surely awaits Charo just as surely as the apple awaits the shining teeth of Eve to pierce its crimson skin, just as surely as the blind man wonders if this is the day that he will comb his hair right.
This is terrible, she said again and he said, I purely do agree. I purely do.
There aint no more to be said, I guess.
I guess not.
He didnt know what more to say. There wasnt more to say, maybe.
He spat onto the carpet.
Note: Comments are closed on old entries.
Absolutely brilliant. Still I am laughing.
I couldn't get the voice of that "beef - it's what's for dinner" guy out of my head.
As surely as I am settin' here, I had the mind and the ability to impale myself thousandfold within the mere first fifteen minutes of that god- forsaken drivel Saturday, as well. After succumbing to the wife's incessant pleading to rent Poseidon, with which to quell her "Natural Disaster Movie" fix, I found myself of the mind to run myself through with the assistance of my 13-year old stepson and a butter knife, a thousand fold. When the tedium grew tiring, I spied none other than a fence post below the second story window. With a start, I awoke in a pool of my own drool... only to gander knowingly into the knowing eyes of my better half, mirror, or perhaps windows with which seeing the self or the others self in onesself became ever apparent... As if conducted by the world's foremost maestro, the unison rang loud and clear... "Next movie... this one blows!"
You are a super-genius.
Now THAT is art.
Funniest McCarthy satire ever. Or maybe the only one, I'm not sure which.
I spit on the carpet in homage to you.
That was fantastic, even without blood.
And the reader said, all that sheer simple almost granitic grandeur, all them cadences almost Biblical, as sure as the coming of the evening, must mean something not to be got at through simpler or more complex means.
And so the reader wrote his doctoral dissertation thereon, and mightily pleased his adviser.
shit damn fuck yeah.
That was the greatest.
That blew. Fire your guest writer. But Lung the Younger's comments were worth it.
Post a comment