Proust is my co-pilot #37

You had this Grandfather; he had this gun.

Somewhere, in the between, you divorced your own mind, ending that meddlesome marriage of thought and body.                                          You began, by inviting Lamia into your head. Into your patterns, she slithered and shifted her weight, placing her eyes on the bureau next to your clock. You feigned sleep, she wailed into her blindness, a mournful duet, coercing the dead, coaxing them, biding the night.

A theatre on a Monday afternoon is a solitary spot, you sit, back against wall,

listening to the hum and clack of the projector motor, the click of film over sprocket, watching light stream a ray of dust, just above you, setting loose you promiscuous mind, let it dally here and there.

You had this Grandfather; he had this taste for hemlock; he had this                                                       commitment to hari-kari.

A woman with obesity wedges herself into a seat along the aisle, lifting and spreading a curtain of alabaster hair about her shoulders, she releases a string of conversation into the room. She is shushed from a dark corner, where a hacking crackles into a cough, dry and angry. Pictures flicker on screen, shape changing width and depth, story pours itself an identity, forgets its name, stopping midsentence

You had this Grandfather; he had this duty, this seppuku.

And childhood is nothing more than a trap;                                                                         it means to hurt when swallowed.

 

 

 

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