November 22, 2003

shell as his skin

We are all sitting around (all of us, every one, I suppose), it's a party at least a television event, there is popcorn and soda. Everyone is there, the atmosphere is cheerful and giddy.

There is an old man, hovering on the periphery... a jewish grandfather type, wearing a seesucker suit and mopping his face periodically with a handkerchief. He is a bluer shade of celebration, bitersweet. We talk for a while. He makes unrememberable jokes, which make me laugh gently.

[unremembered transition]

Outside, I'm walking to the door coming back in. I reach for the door, and see that it is ajar. Peeking from behind it is a gray, rubbery statue of the old man. Intrigued and slightly frightened, I reach for the staute to probe it with my hands, when the old man callls from behind it.

He is a cancerous wound of a face. There is nothing human about his features, except perhaps the almond shaped slits that I recognize from out earlier conversations. His skin is pink and smooth, bulbous in all the wrong places. He tells me about the circumstances of his disfigurement, and how the full body mask is a reasonable alternative to being shut away all the time, but he gets so hot.

I reassure him that it looks good. It looks good on him.

[unremembered transition]

We are walking around the city, (a foriegn city? Frankfurt?), taking Irving on his first walk through the city.

Posted by illovich at November 22, 2003 1:14 PM | TrackBack