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[Feb. 22nd, 2008|01:58 pm] |
With great ceremony, I remove the dust cover from the old Remington 22. The machine gives me a nasty look. We haven't seen each other for a long time. The machine is sulking. I had it in pawn for a while. To cheer it up (there's nothing worse than working on a depressed typewriter), I give it a good cleaning. I oil it with petroleum jelly. The Remington shines like a wild rosebush in the rain.... Slowly, daylight enters the room. I flip open the Remington's top and replace the ribbon. The cursor moves smooth as silk. I slip a white sheet of paper in the roller, move my chair in front of the machine, settle in with a bottle of cheap wine at my feet and, once the ritual is over, I put my chin on my palm, dreaming as we all do of being Ernest Hemingway.
Three hours later, the page as white as ever, I decide to clean house (sweeping, cleaning, the dishes) as proof that genius can express itself in a variety of ways. Waves of heat flood in through the window. I pile the books in a corner under the table and stow the typewriter under the bed...
I pick up bottles from under the table, the bed, and the couch. I go down to Pelatt's and get ten cents each from the guy behind the counter... The air is quivering with hear. Strike a match and all of Montreal will go up. I walk slowly. Just ahead of me, a girl comes out of Hachette with Miller under her arm and almost nothing on her back. My temperature shoots up to 120... The slighest spark and I'll blaze like a slum on a Rio hillside. I warned myself to be careful. Every summer I go crazy like this, and a girl eating ice cream is always to blame. Miz Bookstore's flavor is raspberry. In the final analysis, what's a girl with ice cream except someone who is hungry or thirsty? But in the summertime it's more than that. Just as I was about to all in love with Miz bookstore, I see another girl gliding down the street on her radiant bicycle, whistling. I stop breathing. She brakes and stops at the corner. Red light: her left foot on the pavement, her back bent gracefully, the nape of her neck exposed. Girls like to keep their hair short in the summer. Her body like a bent bow. Green light: she shoves off with her right foot on the pedal. Her body like an arrow that flies. Last image: her back a pure line, the graceful movement of her hips, her slender, adolescent thighs. The emotion: the pain of losing someone forever whom you've loved totally, if only for twelve and three-tenths seconds.
--from "How to make love to a Negro," Dany Laferriere |
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| Comments: |
i was really impressed with your writing until the very end. ;)
That gave me a really nice laugh. :D I guess I ought've titled the post so it was obvious from the get-go it's not my writing (I'm not a good writer at all. It might be time for me to work on that.) Hey - are you in town the weekend of March 2-4? Wait a minute, that's not a weekend at all. Wanna go to any of the March Fourth shows happening on those days? http://marchfourthmarchingband.com/
honestly, we've spent so much moolah lately with seattle coming up, last night and the mstrkrft show, i think i'll have to pass. thanks for thinking of us, though! | |
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heddalee's journal
