Sick again. My wattles wag and my hackle sags in this September heat. She has me beat. False is my cockerel waltz. I’m sick again—must’ve been the feed in Kosovo. Back home, I can barely find a moment to myself. Monica has the hay to herself, sideways and sleep-crowing to an empty barn on a hot night. I startled her as I started to peck this out, finally, after chewing enough hemp seed to itch the tickle in my throat and set my head to cherries. I’ve been thinking about kids a lot lately. Roosters and hens that are our age are expected to have eggs and a coop to show for it, but neither of us feels comfortable committing to raising a chicklet, let alone a family. Monica means more than anything to me, and who knows what little shit we’d have to deal with, those little shits that would come between us. We’re too peckish.
I don’t have the constitution for it. I’ve considered early retirement, but I’ve got five years left—why penguin out now? This chest cold can be beat but I’m bitter that it keeps me from my smokes—every cigarette tastes like cotton wool. Transcribing source interviews and writing to you all, and in my exegesis, I need my seed and my smoke. Tonight I’m allowing myself tonic and powdered vitamin C. Monica, when you read this, know I borrowed your feather-comb and misplaced it somewhere in Southern California. I’ll waltz to the outlet in the morrow.
My cold medicine appears to contain codeine, and I feel fuzzy, so I’ll keep this brief. My one and only assignment this weekend was to read and write about Jonathan Franzen’s new novel Purity, but I couldn’t pick it up to bring home, and I scratched the bureau copy with my spur claws. But what else? Lemons… no Corona… I recommend Grandma with Lily Tomlin as grandma, she’s quite the bitch, always has been. Julia Garner plays grandma’s granddaughter, desperately seeking money for an abortion, and oh yes she did indeed come to the right place. Sorry for the silliness, it’s the seeds… I really enjoyed this small film, intimate and all the rest, as we float along with Tomlin and Garner looking for loans from people they’ve loved and lost. Tomlin is hilarious and mean and fiercely protective and proactive about helping her own against the little shits of the world. We learn lessons and savor the love of family without unnecessary suspense. We know she’s gonna get the fucking abortion. Enjoy the love. Love is the answer. We all need to love each other a little bit more all of the time.
And know as I finally feel the need to sleep, weighed down by all the potions and pills I’ve taken for a mild cold, I’ll put on the debut album by Helen, The Original Faces. I hope it sounds the same in the morning, otherwise this rooster’s roof is wrecked. Before nearly nodding off as side two comes to “Grace”—or is it “Dying All the Time”?—I find myself annoyed by the first song’s familiar and derivative bass line, and struck by the melancholy of the second’s. Helen balances out for me on The Original Faces, though I’ll need another listen in the daylight. This is one to sip tea to.
Signing off, meet me and Monica in the morning.
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