well. i guess i just want to talk about the stinky livers. most of the time we are absent we are worried about the stinky livers, or I am anyway. I know they were left out. I'm sure the whole place stinks. I suspect the neighbors are upset. It's been quite awhile but still they have been left out.
When I go back I find they have been tucked into the leaves of my artbook that now is deep like some kind of dark. open box. The two livers are indeed there partially stuck to the skirt I've recently found (actually), liked and ironed. All in a mess. I definitely didn't want to touch it. And didn't know what to do with it. I tried to pick them up in public but the whole thing fell on the floor.
There was a lot more to it: people from Austria, a new student, a lot of talk and congeniality, a swing over the danube, skimming the surface with my feet (feat I wrote, ?) almost touching unknown big, clear fish underneath but still those two livers were left out stinking up the place.
That they were livers perhaps is the deathbyalcohol thing, but that there were two, almost fused, suggests (I was going to write) A. and Z, for my dear Andrea, my dear Zoe (great livers, both) In the writing then, which is often the interesting part for me, how the puns come out in the telling, (as in the 'leaves' of my artbook, the skimming of the surface) perhaps it is A-Z. All of it. All the stinking mess of it, perhaps fueled too by observations in the college cafeteria yesterday of how outrageously enormous so many of the students were and how sad I was feeling for all the youth and sexiness and all that could be for them and the world beyond obliterated by personal whole pizza lunches with 9' square brownies to round it out. I don't know.
Perhaps I've just been feeling like a stinky liver myself lately. A bit crusted over by all this grieving. Not a lot of fun. Not a good liver. But then again, not alone. I wonder if I have skirted the issue.
