In Current reading, Revision, Sanford Meisner, The Crab Walker on June 27, 2014 at 6:57 am

I’ve nodded in recognition several times. Haven’t laughed out loud yet. The sword of Damocles hangs over my head. According to the Los Angeles Times Book Review blurb on the back of the book, “anyone who can read it without laughing out loud is bad crazy.”

This is like the school principal saying: “Gwendolyne, there is black magic and white magick. The curriculum at Toad’s Hall is strictly of the white kind. Do you understand me, Gwendolyne?” And poor Gwendolyne doesn’t get what the principal’s talking about as the principal (temporarily a small frog called a rainette in French) hops from one pile of school reports to an unfinished forty-five page grant application that must be in before the end of the business day.

But I nodded when the pantry man with stubby thumbs said  “Damn deez doilies!” as he tried to separate them and lay them neatly on the dessert plates. The whole bit reads: “I remember thinking: What a contrast – the person sitting at the table gets this nice cake on a doilied plate, while the pantry man back there with the stubby thumbs is saying ‘Damn deez doilies!’. So that was the difference between the real world and what it looked like.”

Nodded in recognition several more times, but I haven’t finished Richard P. Feynman’s Surely You’re Joking, Mr. Feynman yet. I still stand a chance of discovering I’m good crazy. Hope lurks eternal among the shattered slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.

Photos I will not post: of an old woman with Alzheimer’s reciting an ode to a cupcake before chomping into it with vigor. Of a break-dancing competition during a coaching session and of me looking like the Laughing Buddha with bags under the eyes and the smile on crooked. The coaching’s done until September. I’ll have to find other sources of regular aggravation and delight (I am partial to the admiration of eight-year old boys who find me wonderful and funny too). For the nonce, I’m enjoying a photo done by someone else of two supporters of the Dutch soccer team. Something appeals about bunches of carrots parading as tresses on a fifty-something male. (And then I wonder why literary agents write nice rejection letters saying they don’t get it. ’tis a harsh and cruel world.)

The title relates to the parsing out of dream images among fictional characters. Something like an auction where the barker holds up a tattered bit of something and someone in the crowd bids a nickel on it.  We have a Large and Vivid assortment of dream images, in fresh from last night, characters. One last stroll through the offerings and the bidding is on.


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