The Blah-Blah Cha-Cha-Cha

All summer I’ve had a retired shop teacher in my skull, trying to teach himself to play the marimba. I liked it better when he stuck with hammers and power tools.

I know my tongue’s tucked away somewhere in my face, but I can’t feel the damn thing. The world outside my windows looks like a silent Bunuel movie, and I keep trying to find an appropriately disconsolate soundtrack that’s just loud enough to drown out the marimba. I’m not having much luck. I’m open to suggestions. I’m thinking creaking violins and accordians might do the trick.

I’m always open to suggestions, whatever that means.

You can’t believe how fucking hot it is, unless you’re one of these people who will believe anything. There are trails of perspiration running down the walls. However hot it is to you, it’s at least ten degrees hotter for me. At least. My body is a furnace. I’ve taken off all my clothes and I wish like hell I could take off my skin. I wish I could turn my body inside out. Every hour represents a pendulum swing between collapse and plodding stupor.

I watch presumably religious people wearing ties come up my sidewalk and ring the bell. I think about answering the door naked to ask them if they can get God to do something about the weather, but I don’t have the energy to climb up off of the floor.

The last time I left the house the old Swedish baker (I think he’s Swedish) up the street told me a story that, unless I am mistaken, had something to do with a farmer feeding a bucket of diamonds to a cow.

As I sprawl on the floor staring up at the ceiling it occurs to me that what I’m up to is really pretty simple, if nonetheless hopeless: I’m looking for revelations. At the very least this epiphany, repeated over and over in the monotone voice with which it took shape in my head, should prove useful when dealing with telephone solicitors.

A magic wand would be useless to me right now. What I need is a magic weapon, and I’m not even sure what I’d do with that. I’m pretty sure I could find something to do with it, though, something useful and satisfying.

Suddenly, I realize, it’s grown dark, but it doesn’t seem to have gotten any cooler.

Among the thoughts that crawl across my head as I stare at the ceiling is this: It’s never a good sign when a town has more than one fudge shop. And: This could almost be the moon, if little bastards next door shot off firecrackers all night long on the moon. And: I’m not even sure what tense I’m living in.

And, finally, this: No, sir, this is not a comfortable situation. This is not a comfortable situation at all.