Adhesive For A Cousin’s Mouth

The most remote inhabited island group in the world, Tristan de Cunha in the southern Atlantic Ocean, is so tiny its main island has no airstrip.


In the process of rebuilding the destruction of my life’s work, I wanted to begin retyping something low priority, like my graduate novel chapters, and this pick was the wrong thing for Thursday morning. I cannot locate The Novelists of Don Paydola (shortened later to simply Don Paydola), my idea of real world characters vanishing onto a fantasy island, already corrupted by Lost, if only by virtue of industry success resentment, and wonder why I do not abandon the project altogether, given that I’m basically a short form writer with other more urgent matters to attend to, but since my pace is currently on par with the slime of a laboring snail’s trail, I have to reactivate my rhythm with some sort of launch pad before the beginning, and this was indeed the title of my first chapter. Before The Beginning, before my $800 Toshiba failed, before my continued defiance against ever increasing constriction, before my cousin’s wife became my embattled consigliere over something like our mutual rare attendance at funerals, and yes, I unkindly begin to chafe even as I pursued Billy by telephone over worry for her optical health, given that I resist being insulated by domestic quandaries. Pam of course made inquiries about what I write, and so I sent her Safari on a search about my meeting with Adam Kokesh, published on Medium, and now cousin Pam is following me on Ev Williams brain child, little realizing what I do on Blogger. If she did she would be mad, and our bond, however heavily device supported, would perhaps rupture, and that may not be an entirely consequential demerit, as the monster of self-absorbed selfishness bores itself into the dowager’s shoulder blades. I wanted a confidante, and now I remain uncertain about the virtues of having one, those demands it places upon me, my limited time oozing in my hour glass like salt water taffy. The caregiver who threw himself into my need like a super absorbent smore, located the little of this complex linguistic trick I actually managed to complete before the age of 35, this same Thursday afternoon, and I simply seem incapable of moving fast enough. His 40 hours necessitate my drooling accommodation, in the revolving door to our chocolate melted marshmallow sparks, not fully able to answer the question if I’d trade fucking him for the rarified solitude I enjoyed in September. Terry O’Quinn does not make for an enthralling family annihilator in Stepfather. The pensive mask of his narrow blue eyes and the chiseled expression in his birdlike face were always suited to the enigma of John Locke. His movie, in contrast, had little suspense, rote and shrill, always resistant as I was to this notion of virtual penetration into our three dimensional space, I am now fully infected with potential consequences, though even here, cynicism prevails. On the outside of the Fourth Estate, Facebook is disdained by thirtysomethings. I suspect it’s real market value will fuel the next big short.