Sunday Scribbling #154: Dear Past Me, Dear Future Me
Dear Past Me
Deer passed me in the hall: hailed me with her usual aplomb. I was just back from El Dorado. Better known as Spring Break.
“Extension, Mr. B? Dog ate me homework—judiciously.”
“You’re hoping that last word will sway me.”
“I’m hoping your renewed vigor brings with it Trinitarian compassion, mon frere.”
“French venison. How quaint.”
“It’s all the rage. That, and The Kid’s Guide to Stranger Danger.”
“Your Trinitarian allusion, I was thinking Bloom, Harold.”
“You off on him again? Theoretical physics has more sass than HB, Mr. B.”
“Past 50, the moons get bigger. You long for more, you generate less. Wistfulness blesses all the virgins.”
“Mr. B, it was just an extension.”
“What are you now, a junior?”
“Is there a good answer to that query?”
“Probably not. You might want to take it up with Ms. Hall.”
“Guidance? Deus ex machina’s more my cup of tea. Guidance requires forbearance.”
“I’d think bears are decidedly not in your bailiwick.”
“Sidney, Australia do anything for you, Mr. B? Cuz I ain’t feelin’ these postprandial puns.”
“Who said anything about postprandial? I’m just here for the muffins.”
“So I’ve heard. You might want to cut back.”
Dear Future Me
“Dear, Future Me wants in out of the rain. Any chance you can oblige?”
“She wearing galoshes?”
“In a past life. God was watching the Weather Channel. Or so she said.”
“Put her up in the guest room. Make sure she gets the lavender towels.”
“It’s not like she’s MENSA. I think the beige will do. The ones from Uncle Donald? You ‘member.”
“If you like drying off with tortillas. No, give her the lavender. And break out the salsa while you’re at it. Wasn’t she Phi Beta Kappa at Brown?”
“She hoped to be, till the monsoons swooped in. Then it was Katy bar the door.”
“I once followed Margaret Licarione through Katy’s in Houston. There was a Texas-sized walnut table in the shape of Texas. Right around Presidio, I got a mouthful of hair.”
“That when you drove up over the median? That evening in Avalon? D-Feil’s bras hanging in the bathroom? Texas Group Psychotherapy Association at the Shamrock?”
“I think they were American Groups.”
“But the Shamrock, right? You out on Westheimer and the American Groups down in Irish town? Nancy Kern in the Heights and over at Zimms, right?”
“Butera’s.”
“Ah, sandwiches. No wine?”
“Pimiento cheese. And yes, wine.”
“Dry white?”
“Nancy? Or the wine?”
“Dear, do me a favor. Please. Just future me, okay?”
“Agreed. What’s pasta is pasta.”
“Guest room it is.”
“Paisley Gideons in the side table?”
“Comono.”
“Nunc dimittis.”
“My favorite bicep.”
“My favorite canticle.”
“Her favorite Martian.”
“Athanasius was a visionary, but Marty Robbins was the bomb.”
“Was?”
“Is.”
“Is indeed.”
Deer passed me in the hall: hailed me with her usual aplomb. I was just back from El Dorado. Better known as Spring Break.
“Extension, Mr. B? Dog ate me homework—judiciously.”
“You’re hoping that last word will sway me.”
“I’m hoping your renewed vigor brings with it Trinitarian compassion, mon frere.”
“French venison. How quaint.”
“It’s all the rage. That, and The Kid’s Guide to Stranger Danger.”
“Your Trinitarian allusion, I was thinking Bloom, Harold.”
“You off on him again? Theoretical physics has more sass than HB, Mr. B.”
“Past 50, the moons get bigger. You long for more, you generate less. Wistfulness blesses all the virgins.”
“Mr. B, it was just an extension.”
“What are you now, a junior?”
“Is there a good answer to that query?”
“Probably not. You might want to take it up with Ms. Hall.”
“Guidance? Deus ex machina’s more my cup of tea. Guidance requires forbearance.”
“I’d think bears are decidedly not in your bailiwick.”
“Sidney, Australia do anything for you, Mr. B? Cuz I ain’t feelin’ these postprandial puns.”
“Who said anything about postprandial? I’m just here for the muffins.”
“So I’ve heard. You might want to cut back.”
Dear Future Me
“Dear, Future Me wants in out of the rain. Any chance you can oblige?”
“She wearing galoshes?”
“In a past life. God was watching the Weather Channel. Or so she said.”
“Put her up in the guest room. Make sure she gets the lavender towels.”
“It’s not like she’s MENSA. I think the beige will do. The ones from Uncle Donald? You ‘member.”
“If you like drying off with tortillas. No, give her the lavender. And break out the salsa while you’re at it. Wasn’t she Phi Beta Kappa at Brown?”
“She hoped to be, till the monsoons swooped in. Then it was Katy bar the door.”
“I once followed Margaret Licarione through Katy’s in Houston. There was a Texas-sized walnut table in the shape of Texas. Right around Presidio, I got a mouthful of hair.”
“That when you drove up over the median? That evening in Avalon? D-Feil’s bras hanging in the bathroom? Texas Group Psychotherapy Association at the Shamrock?”
“I think they were American Groups.”
“But the Shamrock, right? You out on Westheimer and the American Groups down in Irish town? Nancy Kern in the Heights and over at Zimms, right?”
“Butera’s.”
“Ah, sandwiches. No wine?”
“Pimiento cheese. And yes, wine.”
“Dry white?”
“Nancy? Or the wine?”
“Dear, do me a favor. Please. Just future me, okay?”
“Agreed. What’s pasta is pasta.”
“Guest room it is.”
“Paisley Gideons in the side table?”
“Comono.”
“Nunc dimittis.”
“My favorite bicep.”
“My favorite canticle.”
“Her favorite Martian.”
“Athanasius was a visionary, but Marty Robbins was the bomb.”
“Was?”
“Is.”
“Is indeed.”
Labels: ruminants
posted by murat11 at 11:42 AM
10 Comments:
interesting and unique take! i felt very much like a voyeur. i love the bit about deus ex machina.
Floreta: I like the voyeuristic take. Aren't we all voyeurs off in our blogsurfings?
Hooray! You're back! And it looks like you brought back some excellent company, too. Not sure I've ever seen Bloom, the Song of Simeon, Athanasius, the Texas Group Psychotherapy Association, and Marty Robbins all in the same place before, but this sure was fun.
I liked that line about deus ex machina, too, but the one I'm carrying off in my pocket is "Wistfulness blesses all the virgins."
Good to see you here again.
Yo, Ms Anno: For a while there, I was afraid the Gulf Coast had swallowed me up, creativity and all. (The trip was great, lovely grey rainy New England coast weather, but...) I was definitely not feeling this prompt, not even derisively, but then the ruminant conceit took hold in my junior English class today, as they were off writing road trip stories, using Eudora Welty's "The Hitch Hikers" story as a prompt. I used a Donald Barthelme story yesterday in another class: he's always good for stirring something up, and of course, all the collage nonsense is just a quick CAT scan of where my head's been the last few daze. I spent the weekend with Tina and Borges' wonderfully entertaining Seven Nights lectures, and came back to another minuet with HB's Jesus and Yahweh meditations.
That long ago Group Psycho conference was positively bacchanalian.
"Just future me, okay?" A request that should fulfill the MENSA pre-requisite. Or at least garner an extension. Or a stay of execution.
Sister San: I'll take the stay, not that I'm on the waiting list (MENSA or otherwise).
Ha! I love this! Three loves. No, four! Take them or I shall loofa offa your lavender brain cells. It’s late, I’m tired, and under the Texas-shaped table. Those are my silly excuses : )
Muchness: Careful about that table, hermana: it was dark in that bar, no tellin' what was under the table.
Silly excuses are the best kind...
Harold Bloom's my favorite literary critic, and this latest posting, "Dear Past Me, Dear Future Me" would certainly meet his approval. Great. Keep up the postings. Count Sneaky
Count: HB is certainly off the chain (luv dropping something like that on His Haroldness), but I'm not sure he'd go for the Deer: certainly not Western Canon, nor Sites of Wisdom. Maybe Kabbalah, so we might squeeze in at that.
What counts, though, is that I'm down with the Count. Thanks for the props.
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