IN MANY WAYSby Daniel D'Angelo I was in my house. I could move, I could arrange myself around things, but I couldn’t move anything else. I’m capably strong and I couldn’t pick up a glass, roll a ball, open a door. A window was open. I folded myself through. The outside was also still. To walk on grass was to stand on the tips of it. The knifey tips, sharp and unbendable, didn’t fuck up my shoes. That was a nice feature of the way things were. Nothing happened outside so I folded myself back inside the house through the window. I have like ten kids at home frozen at various stations: dishwashing, televisioning, sleeping. I didn’t try to say anything to them. My wife, Karen Hornet, wasn’t moving either. She was stuck looking pissed in front of the closed basement door with a note she was taping to it that read: Honey, I feel like shit. Can we get a blender and buy tons of stuff and try to make a milkshake configuration that tastes like a stunning new kind of mortal terror that actually, finally, after all our terror experiments, makes us feel better? We can start out blending mustard with bread and cheese and bonemeal and crayons and what happens if we put marmalade in it? Are there types of marmalade? Do you kind of want to put types of beef in it? Get several beefs. Love, Karen Hornet. |