That was never my intention. Yet I
was. And I did. I’m growling with
hunger as I mull this over – all too
aware of impending hibernation, go
ing about the business of chopping wood
for days (What, you don’t think I can
work an axe? Try me!). Nothing has
me reflect more on mortality than
doing such. My grandfather had
arrived home from doing so one
late morning, having never spent
a night in hospital. My grandmother
brought him an aspirin because he
said he was in pain. By the time
she returned to the living room
couch with a couple of powdery
pills, he was down for the count.
For good. A slide show of Baroque
paintings with voluptuous women
cast somewhere in the vicinity of
the under-lids of my eyes click at
quite a clip in my head, it cannot
be helped. I relax often, as is
common of folks shaped and aged
similarly to myself. But I can never
quite confidently relax into such
relaxation. My idea of pleasure, or
one of them, is climbing up and
plodding down the many hills of my
gorgeous city. Sure, some people
find cherubs gorgeous. People pay
abundantly to plump themselves up
in certain areas. But do not speak
of such things to me. It would only
distort the delusional image I have of
the skinny scoundrel I still think I am.
