my problems don’t begin here, where my wife now stands. As a nearby exit I call the real husbands of the city to a place where we can talk about women, the real comedians of the city, who might not always send us complementary tickets. the camera will move in the lateral direction, it will pan from a man in terrible make-up to a Dadaist genius, at least for the children who are up on a Saturday morning. The camera will linger on each face, it will offer a collective view every few seconds, to show heads nodding in affirmation. my wife wakes up as a clown, draws the drapes while she is fucking me, makes funny faces. Every day at 7 PM she serves us tea, she turns the baby over and she schemes the TV for milk. the taste of human milk is there every day at 7 PM when she serves me and the baby tea annotations. she serves the baby steel wire in that grace tradition. my problems don’t begin here. I ask her what she imagines the baby is made of inside. begin here in the rabbit hole, check me for the funny bone. turning turbines and an umbrella. the real husband smoke switch Dunhills, will return next week, same time same day*
*floating barthe-water: so, reader, should you ever find yourself writing about the world, take care not to nibble at the many tempting symbols she sets squarely in your path, or you’ll be baited into saying things you don’t really mean, and offending the people you most want most to entertain. Develop, if you can, the technique of the pallbearers and myself: smile, to be sure – for fucking dogs are truly funny – but walk on and say nothing, as though you hadn’t noticed.