March 23rd, 2005

Morphing at the Wake

“While neurosis rules, all life becomes a symbolic play….The childhood creates a set of characters which become myths.” --Anais Nin

From the still summertime trees came the loud buzzing of a zillion cicadas. I was on the porch, examining myself. I thought my little cock was peculiar. It looked exactly like the fireplug on the illustration on the white paper bag large round loaves of bread came in. I twirled my cock clockwise and—surprise! It got stiff and stood up. And then, when I twirled it counter-clockwise, it went down.

A fascinating phenomenon! I couldn’t figure it out. I knew it was worthy of careful examination, like taking the back off a radio to see what makes it capture voices and music from the atmosphere. I wondered: Did they make fireplugs look like a cock because both can squirt liquid? Probably. There’s a reason for everything, all you have to do is look to find out what it is.

But in addition to the fireplug, there also was an illustration of a little boy. He was grinning as he held a huge round loaf of bread against his chest. In his hand was a long sharp knife, and he was cutting himself a slice. Well, that boy obviously didn’t have a grandmother like mine. Not too long before, I wanted to duplicate the actions of the little boy on the bread bag, so I went to the drawer in the kitchen and took out a knife just like the one in the illustration. My grandmother Josephine, who never missed a thing, spotted me and shouted that I must NEVER go to that drawer and take a sharp knife because I will cut myself and bleed to death.

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