Vol 13, Num 13 :: 2014.06.27 — 2014.07.10
I realize this is an impossible plan. Writing up here in this tree. Sitting on planks with mosquitoes bobbing up and down on my legs.
I like the aloneness, though. If I have to trade mosquitoes for people bobbing up and down with poisonous small talk, I pick this.
What are red, scratchy welts on my feet and hands and scalp compared to the platitude prick and swarm, hovering just to hear their own drone.
At least I have Calamine lotion for the bug bites.
Perhaps it would be helpful to apply some sort of pastel salve on each spot I am bitten with babble about the weather or prattle about your busy schedule.
Better yet, a polluting aerosol to spray upon my head when I see you coming. Perhaps the scent of it would magically change your words to poetry.
Or some sort of chemical reaction would take place mid-air so that all your words would be about Annie Dillard or Bob Dylan or Degas’ dancers.
Or even Dr. Seuss.