(a collaboration with Todd Colby)
Here
amid the burned papers and empty cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, a mere
schedule conflict makes us intelligent again, and sacrificial. Even
Canada has rednecks, but no one is rude enough to call them rednecks.
And I suggest you respect the Bay of Fundy's red-violet mud should you
visit Nova Scotia. The bay has other plans for you, which become
apparent once you surrender, much as you'd surrender. Let's just assume
the gravity of summer is a good thing. Picnics with a certain sense of
destruction are a metonym for the future approaching you of its own
volition. Certain things are hurtling toward you always. The
possibility of a June blue sky, say. Or death, say. What's that word
that means "the ever-present potential for losing your edges"? Oh,
those candied orange slices they serve with sugar all over them and when
you bite into them it's a soft, squishy jelly that seems perfect for
lounging around on, were it the size of a futon in Bermuda. As long as
we don't accidentally start a forest fire and get sued by the state of
California, we could totally do that.
