cellini's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Gulfstream Lately I eat simple things. A tin of sardines. Half of a baguette with a lump of cheese. A tomato and salt. Suddenly I have no confidants. Everyone scattered about with their own lives and their own stories. My fishing rod is in the car at all times, reel on the back seat and the tip of the rod on the dashboard. I think of that dream and my chest aches. I wonder whether it was better to have had the dream at all if I can never have another real moment or a day like that. I imagine one perfect day with exactly the right woman. I think about the shape of her cheek and her hang-dog eyes. I tear chunks of bread from the baguette. I draw my knife from its sheath on my belt and spread the chunks of bread with camembert. It is the same knife that I used to quarter my last deer and it is the same knife with which I cut off the the head of a big, flopping fish. Its gills pulsed uselessly as the severed head lay among curled brown leaves by the side of the pond. The same 3 Richard Hawley songs on repeat in the car. Windows down. I accelerate into the tight curves. My body whipped tight against the door and the breeze stiff in my face. 10:36 a.m. - 2010-04-06 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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