Friday, May 27, 2011

Nesting Internal Exiles

There was, by the way, no rapture. I don't feel like talking about the non-events that have transpired after the non-apocalypse.

Instead, a year ago today: a diner in downtown Moscow. The tulips are wilting at the feet of red-thumbed Mayakovsky (he never loved to garden). Boisterous Anglophones around the table, boisterously discussing the calculated act of boisterously confessing boisterous sins, that awkward game of trying to sound convincingly like you have confessed but not revealed too much. Oh yes - Gypsy Song stole candy at the grocery store. Ginger Doctor joked, 'You wouldn't mention that you'd jacked off seven times before going?"

"No," said Gypsy Song. "You're supposed to confess things you're sorry for, not things you plan on doing again the next day."

Ginger Doctor asked, "But what if that was just a statement?"

Gypsy Song laughed, imagined: "Father, I masturbated seven times today..."

Ginger Doctor continued, "'Are you sorry about it?'

No, I just wanted to tell you.'"

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