 |  |  | |
| david blaine |  | 1. Dear Hunting I remember how odd it felt that first time like six years before, hunting when my old man had handed me that strange rifle and somehow thought I was going to be able to shoot a deer with it. It was like that, so familiar something I'd seen almost daily for years yet at the same time so totally foreign. I recall how she felt in my hands the weight across my arms but the smell of her completely different from the cold steel of that gun's receiver. And how this time I hadn't missed. 2. Let the Dead Bury Their Dead Yesterday my father had given me these asparagus seedlings, roots wrapped in damp newspaper. I was working wet kneed planting them in the freshly spaded earth when my wife came to me. She had just taken the call. Father had passed. She wanted me to come in get washed up and go to make arrangements but I took another half hour finishing up the planting and watering them in. Our transaction was then complete. 3. And so we decided to continue the experiment, the effect being something between a step through the looking glass and a magic carpet ride. I remember when we bought our first bottle. We mixed cocktails the color of a kid's toy. A couple of hours and a casual acquaintance with Absinthe began to reveal a true clarity in our thinking. Everyone seemed remarkably connected to us. She would paint while I wrote little vignettes about the day's news. We'd watch the world we were creating for ourselves and marvel at the result of our escapades. It wasn't long until our ménage a trios became a necessary luxury. After the first few belts the physical effects obscured the peculiar anise flavor. She said the green stuff was beautiful in its simplicity and inspiring in its reliability. But reality is a cure for many things, and the truth about us became like a series of portraits charting incremental changes I didn't care to look at. I couldn't remember what it felt like to live in my own skin. The joy was coming in stop action increments, diminishing returns. Today I can't even remember her name. And I no longer eat licorice. 4. Note To A Shadow Of My Former Self When your marriage, money and libido head south these phrases might come in handy: Soy soltero is not a coffee drink you buy at a Tijuana Starbucks. When you find yourself in the center of a grocery aisle and you can't remember why get some bread, milk, and a small bunch of bananas. Tengo que compre isn't an orange juice substitute served in San Diego. The other side of your bed is a long way from here. You can't afford the ticket and your passport has expired. Necesito isn't a city in Southern California. You used to think the end would come in a matter of moments like the opening, then closing of a moth's wings. Vaya Con Dios won't be found on a menu. When you find yourself in the center of a grocery aisle get some huevos. | |
| | | |