"Of course this year there were no coconuts because there was a war on."-- Graham Greene
If this young and presumably promising novelist is still following me, (or even if she isn't though I would understand on both counts) what cannot be recaptured are the episodes of marvel and wonder. Even in delicately phrased special needs schools there were Christmas pageants, and while no vocal talent beheld the child in leg irons, whose creative rivulets were not geared toward pantomime, like. a nine year old oxen tilling diligently she Knew All The Words, and where the other young deformed personages stumbled, spastic, the nascent blockhead, shouldered on. Mother, father watching, the child determinedly loved this particular carol. The affection carried and the teachers ran up afterward grateful. "You saved the entire show." (I believe I was slated for transfer to Normal School as the evening concluded.)
Marvel, wonder, transcendence. City sidewalks busy sidewalks dressed in holiday style, nothing more than an urbane variation, the lack of ubiquity human nature invests in the solstice. Wide eyed nieces and nephews cannot restore it, triumph the nihilism. Destination Media is just another labor in the censored fracking of my sister Stephanie's marriage, her father absent against her Insistence that he be a grandfather to his only grandchildren. She hates Louise, archetypal stepmother, more than I, the mechanism for transference. We'd probably both like to murder our father. I do not go, as how am I to get in the house these days, warrior colon the one constant, the carryover skid marks of fecal stains on the leg brace leather, desperately trying to avoid mother haunting memory, aggregates suck.
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