When I was a kid my dad taught me and Oliver how to fish. First we spent a day practicing casting our lines. I was quite good at this. (I always was a better athlete than Oliver. Far more coordinated. Until, of course, I hit that wretched growth spurt and all grace left my limbs.) After casting our lines to his approval, my dad said we had to find our own worms. I hated this part. It seemed so cruel to dig them up from their nice dark earth. But I did it. Then he began to teach us how to bait the lines. It was so horrible. I still can�t stand to think of it. The worms writhed about and we were simply to put the hook through them. Twice so they stayed on nice and tight. This is how the story turns out: I did not learn to fish.

Actually, this is how the story turns out: I�ve been terrified of worms ever since then. My childhood nightmares were caught along two lines of intersecting horror: worms and arthritis. I would wake in the middle of the night completely paralyzed. I had rheumatoid arthritis and I was paralyzed by it and a worm was somewhere on me and I could not get it off. Over and over I had this dream and I would lie in the dark stiff with fear and horror. I never made a sound, never called for help.

They�ve been piling the work on me today. I�m done in by it all. I�m done in by the sad wet rain which we�ve long needed. I�m done in by helloes and goodbyes. I�m done in by small talk and smiles. Wish I knew how to save myself today. My head hurts like someone braided up the nerve endings tight like my cruel grandmother braided my hair as a kid. Smacking my hands away with a hard wood brush as I tried to protect myself. I imagine I�ll go home and stare at the rain and the walls for a few hours.

I meant to be cheery. I meant to convince myself that my mood will lighten with some homegrown cheer. Calioo-calioh.

I just was having a look at Bauer�s poem (written in the mind of Maya, if you�ll recall) and damn if he hasn�t changed at all�still confusing sex for truth. Here�s a bit so you can see what I mean:

It�s like being in those men�s porno booths,
The one with the little holes in the walls,
They stick their cocks in there
and it doesn�t matter who you were looking at a few seconds ago,
you really don�t know who is giving you the lousy blow job now.

Sorry to inflict that upon you. I just get tired of reading such things all alone. It makes me sad. The same way that movie Leaving Las Vegas made me sad. Not for the reasons the makers and the writers intended, I think�I�m sad that people feel there is some truth in such things. I don�t feel it except when I think how small our perceptions of loss and grief have become�how unable we are to think of new metaphors to explain such matters to ourselves.

Frankly, I bet Bauer thinks his poem is funny. That�d be just like him. Why the hell am I bashing poor Bauer? He�s a decent fellow and he�s absolutely charming company and I am simply a brat.

Ok here�s what I�ll do. When the five o�clock whistle sounds I�ll scoot on home. Bash and I will go for a nice long walk in the rain. I�ll get myself some greens to eat. I�ll get myself some wine. I�ll play music and I�ll systematically clean house. If I do these things how could I not feel better by the evening�s end? I�ll have been so virtuous. I�ll be able to contemplate myself with such satisfaction. Don�t you think this should work? Don�t you?