So ... How's your girl?
Word is out that my enemies are finally out to ruin me, to finish me off while I'm down, so I have taken some careful precautions in disguising myself. Of the old me, I can guarantee that not a single trace is left. I very nearly shaved my head, but the thought of having my malformed skull attract any attention prompted me to opt for a deceptive fade instead. I thought it out prior to arriving at the beauty salon and drew up specifications, the most important of which was to have my hair heavy in the back to distract from my lack of curve in the cranium. My hairdresser of several years was perplexed by my detailed request, whereas any barber in the South Central LA area, any ex-con, I should say, would have been more than pleased to hack off what he would consider a faggot/dyke's hairstyle, gotten completely rid of it, ushered me back in the fold, done me the favor! I had been going to her regularly every 2-3 weeks thereabout, to make the most minimal cuts here and there, because I wanted to retain a lengthy style that would exude a Bohemian negligence while avoiding a sloven look. Between her barely significant snips, she would ask me how my writing was going and whether my latest girlfriend was well. In order to pass the time, I'd take the liberty of fabricating some moral problem to please her practical sense, and she would respond with articles of advice that she no doubt picked up from the Spanish daytime talk shows that were always playing on the salon's little television. The more I think about it, the more foolish it seems, because it was for sheer farcical ceremony that I paid her the sum of eight dollars plus tip. Well, on this occasion, she must have been dreading the intrusion of actual work, because she wasted no time in countering my directions with an exclamation, But your hair is so manageable long! or some similar nonsense. I returned, Cut the crap, lady! (by which I meant my hair) It's the summer now and I'm unbearably hot. I tugged at my collar to show her the blackened ring of sweat. And before you ask, my girlfriend left me because I guess she got tired of my fucking too many girls in secrets. Can you believe that she couldn't even appreciate the artistry of my half-truths? No more questions, if you please! She flashed me a disconcerted look and commenced to work, mumbling about coping mechanisms.
After three years, my bangs had become so exhausted with themselves that they begged for the mercy of being put to the ground. They did this by forming gangs that would jut out into the air and refuse to settle down. Any fate would have been better than the disgrace of going out of fashion, but little had they known, they had been born into a world that long abhorred them! They weren't so annoying that I couldn't sweep them left or right and out of sight, or tuck them behind the ears, or I could even slick them back like a Mafia don, but I had made the serious decision that I must rid myself of the laziness that their childish innocence evoked. I'm gonna go balding one horrible day, so what's the use of watching the forest disappear from the canopy? I'd rather be close to the devastation than watch it go down in clumps. I don't want to experience the alarming surprise of picking long rogue strands of hair from off my pillow -- certainly not, if they're mine! So, off they fell in a mass. Now, my face has the anxiety of having nowhere to hide, that is, unless you count the new shrubbery. In light of my drastic haircut, I've grown a scant excuse for facial hair, a sort of goattee that doesn't connect and a spiky soul patch. Forget what I said before about my Chinaman's whiskers. I had written that particular phrase with an ignorance of long ago. It seems that the countless shaves over the years have granted me the thickness of a respectable broom. I trim it with much scrutiny so that it might lose the bristling Eastern look and make shift on something more reminiscent of Italy or Ezra Pound. I have to admit that it lays a great framework for the reliable plenitude that IS my mouth and lips.
I hide out in the Central Library some weekdays. The fiends that seek me out are incapable of following me there. They have no business amongst books that are like so many closed doors for them. Recently, in the international languages department, I found an anthology of works by Macedonio Fernández that has provided me with endless amusement, Para Una Metafisica Argentina. To give you a clue of his daunting eccentricity, I need only to tell you that he has written a novel with twenty chapters and fifty-six forewords. As far as known connections go, he was a mentor to Borges, by virtue of his friendship with Borges Sr., and colleague of the philosopher William James (brother of Henry). I'm not too fond of outright bragging, but GOOD LUCK finding his shit in English! Hell, I'd be surprised if you found any scraps at all. Actually, I'd be enraged. In fact, because of his rarity (so far as your precious Amazon), I'm contemplating stealing this here edition and making up some preposterous story for the library officials. God knows I support the library by other means. Did I not buy an Edgar Allan Poe action figure from their gift store two weeks ago, along with a tacky gilded bookmark that featured my astrological sign? That reminds me, I need to go back there and liberate the rest of those lovely toys, which include figures the likes of Oscar Wilde, Benjamin Franklin, and William Shakespeare. As you can see, I take my literary life very seriously.
After three years, my bangs had become so exhausted with themselves that they begged for the mercy of being put to the ground. They did this by forming gangs that would jut out into the air and refuse to settle down. Any fate would have been better than the disgrace of going out of fashion, but little had they known, they had been born into a world that long abhorred them! They weren't so annoying that I couldn't sweep them left or right and out of sight, or tuck them behind the ears, or I could even slick them back like a Mafia don, but I had made the serious decision that I must rid myself of the laziness that their childish innocence evoked. I'm gonna go balding one horrible day, so what's the use of watching the forest disappear from the canopy? I'd rather be close to the devastation than watch it go down in clumps. I don't want to experience the alarming surprise of picking long rogue strands of hair from off my pillow -- certainly not, if they're mine! So, off they fell in a mass. Now, my face has the anxiety of having nowhere to hide, that is, unless you count the new shrubbery. In light of my drastic haircut, I've grown a scant excuse for facial hair, a sort of goattee that doesn't connect and a spiky soul patch. Forget what I said before about my Chinaman's whiskers. I had written that particular phrase with an ignorance of long ago. It seems that the countless shaves over the years have granted me the thickness of a respectable broom. I trim it with much scrutiny so that it might lose the bristling Eastern look and make shift on something more reminiscent of Italy or Ezra Pound. I have to admit that it lays a great framework for the reliable plenitude that IS my mouth and lips.
I hide out in the Central Library some weekdays. The fiends that seek me out are incapable of following me there. They have no business amongst books that are like so many closed doors for them. Recently, in the international languages department, I found an anthology of works by Macedonio Fernández that has provided me with endless amusement, Para Una Metafisica Argentina. To give you a clue of his daunting eccentricity, I need only to tell you that he has written a novel with twenty chapters and fifty-six forewords. As far as known connections go, he was a mentor to Borges, by virtue of his friendship with Borges Sr., and colleague of the philosopher William James (brother of Henry). I'm not too fond of outright bragging, but GOOD LUCK finding his shit in English! Hell, I'd be surprised if you found any scraps at all. Actually, I'd be enraged. In fact, because of his rarity (so far as your precious Amazon), I'm contemplating stealing this here edition and making up some preposterous story for the library officials. God knows I support the library by other means. Did I not buy an Edgar Allan Poe action figure from their gift store two weeks ago, along with a tacky gilded bookmark that featured my astrological sign? That reminds me, I need to go back there and liberate the rest of those lovely toys, which include figures the likes of Oscar Wilde, Benjamin Franklin, and William Shakespeare. As you can see, I take my literary life very seriously.