Dredging through text files on my computer to find this excerpt, which is amazing because my brain has dumped the event that occurred but upon reading it, flashed with brilliant clarity into the antechamber of memory: eyesquinting through the slats of gray light through the slow swaying jog of disturbed vertical blinds out into the muddy wastes of March half-frozen in its transformation into wetly alluring April where the slog of neighbors entertain my moment of ennui.
A sad image: a frown-downing vision in decaying sunlight, two blimps drifting at a distance from each other, but equidistantly. Both are old, the one leading the way, the if any approximations of direction are to be given distinction, is visibly much more ancient, wreathed of white cotton in a fashion of muu muu spangled in patterns of blue and yellow, she floats forward, large and steady, while one imagines the scent of dependable baby powder, and seems sturdily sturdy, almost the way an elephant is, until she stops for an inaudible (naturally that is the case, your narrator being deafer than a fucking doornail) wheeze and you see by the wan light that she is supported by four small wheels from which grow connecting aluminum shafts, the only things supporting her bulk as she sets her jowls down onto her quietly quaking (naturally) arms, pressing against the fading warmth of her metal fancy cane, to bring her forehead to rest onto her forearms for a moment, and to remain equidistant, her mitochondrial carrier slows, like a dirigible desultorily settling to earth, to a stop on fat legs at least wearing pants, and puffs like a chimney, smoke unfurling around her short brown hair. Does she stop out of consideration for a proud creature whose particular facilities are intact while the rest takes the handcart to hell, or does she halt out of begrudging pity, resenting the inevitable fragility of aging, the unspoken social precepts which demands she feel remorse for desperately wishing the wheels would give out, crack under that sheer weight and fly out until grubby arms fly apart, fat worms for fingers splayed darkly in the dusklight until they smack almost wetly against the concrete before the fatal crack of the skull, the wispy mane of achromic coiffure doing nothing to cushion the impact, just to be free from the obligation of quasi-paternal responsibility? The wind ruffles the vertical blinds and i stick my finger in the nose to the knuckle and scratch out a nice gooey gob which goes down the gullet quite nicely.