. . . I was watching an episode of Mad Men in which Monique was married to Don Draper. Don was helping my father do some yard work. He picked up a pick-ax, a double-headed pick-ax, and swung it with all his might. (I shielded my eyes with the parted fingers of my right hand when I saw the accident coming.) The head of the pick-ax slid off of the handle, entered Don just above his anus, exited his abdomen through his navel and went flying, bloody, forward with considerable momentum.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
At the turn of the twenty-first century, quaintly, verdant patches of wild meadow interrupted the landscape of Midtown Houston. The sprawl of the suburbs in the eighties and the nineties, unimpeded in every direction, left scattered pockets of land inside the city's innermost loop undeveloped, and even though we lived mere blocks from downtown, from the second story of our townhouse, well into the noughties, we could gaze upon one of those green patches, a mini-meadow about an acre, a rip in the urban fabric in the shape of the letter L.
Sunday, March 16, 2014
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Andrew will be happy to know that I made it to the grocery store. When he's away for extended periods of time, he worries that I'll go hungry, and for good reason. I start eating whatever's in the refrigerator, and skip meals, and get lost in projects, and never go to the grocery store, and stay up too late, and survive on grilled cheese sandwiches and old wasabi peas, stuff like that.