They had to write about the trade they had done, so they did so with lowercase italix they had found on the beach. He spoke softly and sighed. Mumbled. He said gym was hard. He said the classroom had slick walls and cracks in its corners that showed an orange light.
Each found shell was set against a black matte back.
We had discussions about creativity in an ambulance that drove from San Jose to the Atlantic.
They were either unworked or worked. The mealy child stood before us, against the chalkboard, and said, "You know the story before changing tense. Clear. Your island cities each have an overdraft of $5,000. Clear. Your interpretations would not be agreed upon on that nearby coast."
He stood in front of the chalkboard, so we traced him with pink chalk first. Then white. He pointed to the shore of a lake we had made as a project.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
10.23.08 / Watson Library / Floor 3 1/2 West
He had the photo of another face taped over his face. His sister carried palm fronds and tea leaves. She showed much skill when she danced--and this was amazing since, in the house, she had no partner to dance with.
She had to dance with a broomstick to which she had glued lace and sequins. He stood and put his forearm on Proust's shoulder. The image was hazy. He wore a mask. He carried a cane.
Two receding mopeds--we tried to catch up to. Much of the brochure had been blacked out, bowdlerized. She penetrated her parakeet's death with her somnolent sickness.
Subsequent times, he retched over his now dead mother. Sickbed death scenes were not enough. Sickbed seances. The funeral was so close to the tournament of lilies. She did not have eyelids, so she had synthetic ones made for herself. They were made of rainslicker material. She spoke with a distaste of his often invisible entrance.
Erik Satie wore a homburg, pince nez, and a beard like a black icecream cone.
She had to dance with a broomstick to which she had glued lace and sequins. He stood and put his forearm on Proust's shoulder. The image was hazy. He wore a mask. He carried a cane.
Two receding mopeds--we tried to catch up to. Much of the brochure had been blacked out, bowdlerized. She penetrated her parakeet's death with her somnolent sickness.
Subsequent times, he retched over his now dead mother. Sickbed death scenes were not enough. Sickbed seances. The funeral was so close to the tournament of lilies. She did not have eyelids, so she had synthetic ones made for herself. They were made of rainslicker material. She spoke with a distaste of his often invisible entrance.
Erik Satie wore a homburg, pince nez, and a beard like a black icecream cone.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
10.21.08 / Watson Library / Floor 3 1/2 Center
Dialects revealed the outcomes of our romantic education. A huge amount of short-lived bodies we stepped over because we had just bought new kicks.
The financial audit put equal amounts of weight on her hips and the permit of her young son, who could not line his topp teath with his bottum properlee. Her son, who could not align his shoulders as the rest of us could, had secret shadows he showed only to Hispanic Americans, high risk students, and low vocabulary books. (Who would have guessed that the cuffs of his shirts had razors in them?)
After huge amounts of head, she foresaw a Gestalt Therapy revision of the healing arts. She was so controversial behind the fake wooden podium that she broke it. She started to gnash her teeth horrifically, so someone took a pair of scissors out of her perse and placed the blades between her teeth.
Her mother, though sans doubt competent in the pecan grove, never understood that some are clearly collaborative while other want zero to do with setting up new exercises for pubic cuisine. Butter the bread sticks with penises. He tried helplessness.
ssness.
His son, regrettably, remembers his sex education. They gave condoms to kindergartners. One student recalls seeing his older brother having sex on a heating element. His brother's partner seemed not to mind his efforts, though she often described the ninth paragraph of some obscurantist's poem as he slow dipped behind her. The gear housing of the sensory aids had rotted through because it had been made of poorly given therapy. Therapy rubbed in with feet instead of hands. She rolled two pig's eyeballs between her greased palms. Why?
Some loaf. Intellectual functioning that is more than four standard deviations below the plate we had installed over his mother's neck for protection. It was supposed to have been a boat that floated--but it became more of a rapidly established attempt at reconciliation with a woman who had moved to a lava tube in the Canary Islands.
Her husband had been cheating on her for over a year, so she got a coffee drink she invented on the spot and a dark beer for free. She cut the wires in his new apartment. She drove a nail through a wire in his attic. The nail in the wire--a few nights later--heated to over 800 degrees and set fire to dresses he kept. The dresses had been made by horses in a factory in the 1350s.
The financial audit put equal amounts of weight on her hips and the permit of her young son, who could not line his topp teath with his bottum properlee. Her son, who could not align his shoulders as the rest of us could, had secret shadows he showed only to Hispanic Americans, high risk students, and low vocabulary books. (Who would have guessed that the cuffs of his shirts had razors in them?)
After huge amounts of head, she foresaw a Gestalt Therapy revision of the healing arts. She was so controversial behind the fake wooden podium that she broke it. She started to gnash her teeth horrifically, so someone took a pair of scissors out of her perse and placed the blades between her teeth.
Her mother, though sans doubt competent in the pecan grove, never understood that some are clearly collaborative while other want zero to do with setting up new exercises for pubic cuisine. Butter the bread sticks with penises. He tried helplessness.
ssness.
His son, regrettably, remembers his sex education. They gave condoms to kindergartners. One student recalls seeing his older brother having sex on a heating element. His brother's partner seemed not to mind his efforts, though she often described the ninth paragraph of some obscurantist's poem as he slow dipped behind her. The gear housing of the sensory aids had rotted through because it had been made of poorly given therapy. Therapy rubbed in with feet instead of hands. She rolled two pig's eyeballs between her greased palms. Why?
Some loaf. Intellectual functioning that is more than four standard deviations below the plate we had installed over his mother's neck for protection. It was supposed to have been a boat that floated--but it became more of a rapidly established attempt at reconciliation with a woman who had moved to a lava tube in the Canary Islands.
Her husband had been cheating on her for over a year, so she got a coffee drink she invented on the spot and a dark beer for free. She cut the wires in his new apartment. She drove a nail through a wire in his attic. The nail in the wire--a few nights later--heated to over 800 degrees and set fire to dresses he kept. The dresses had been made by horses in a factory in the 1350s.
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