without feathers

pic from papertissue


I hadn’t seen him for years, and when he reappeared the feeling wasn’t shock or panic but some kind of numb acceptance that sooner or later, fate would head this way. The ceiling lights were dim and my living room furniture stood between, once sturdy mahogany chairs the wife had flown from Bangkok and other poorly built crap she had collected from being in Asia nearly 8 months every year, the sight of each room I usually endured with a touch of Drink and fading hope that despite the chances, a plane crash would eventually call for that unsettled soul of hers. Maybe it’d crash right here on this house, all this furniture would perish with.

When you’ve moved on from the memory of someone who’s chosen to vanish, and other thoughts fill that vacated space in your mind-even if you attempt the remember the little features, if the eyes were slanted or deep, wide things that contained all of a man’s heavy, tri-colored soul, or if one lip was bigger than the other so the face carried the bruised, tough-ass-motherfucker look of a retired boxer-details are taken over by new details, and it is under this terrible cycle which most people, one way or another, get consumed into perfect irrelevance-that is, until God or the clockmaker/dreamweaver/Armadillo King and His universe turn around, lays its retribution in the strength of a faceless stranger.

He instructed me to sit down, even with a table separating us I felt little to no reassurance-I knew what this man was capable of, while others toiled in universities and offices to learn skills to earn a salary or survive the modern world, he had no such concern and was born with a pure and natural kind of violence-it was there in the grip of his fingers, his pose of a bendless spine and even more unwavering mind that knew just one objective-no games or tricks or theatre of any sort, though evidenced by his wanting us to sit down, rather than marching straight to business-he was willing to delay gratification, instead a conversation lay first on the night’s still murky agenda.

3. (B&W week begins today)


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