There's something about this font that makes you nostalgiac for clacking typewriters and cigarettes and crumpled, inked sheets scatterred across a hardwood floor. Maybe an empty glass of water, or vodka - it's so hard to tell when there are just dregs and the words aren't coming.It reminds me of that movie, with the actor before he had throat cancer and the actress before she had kids and married the nut. The writer in that movie - a stoner, a loser, a lover, a true writer - his novel blew away in great gusts in an abandoned parking lot on a wharf. I can still see his face - Michael J. Fox, there it is, staring straight ahead as pages whirled and whipped past his graying hair and the golden glasses sitting, perched, on top.
There was Olga, the beautiful waitress who I am now tempted to google because maybe she is famous now and I never knew, never realized. But I am embracing the pain, like that L.A. pyscho (therapist) tells his patients to do, embracing it like a giant cloud and letting Olga the waitress die off Hollywood-style, when the phone stops ringing and you hear that your former co-star, Michael J. Fox, has throat cancer because you watch E! News every evening, now, hoping to hear your name.
Olga, he said as she smiled with those eyes like a calf, like Io, Zeus's ill-fated tryst, one of many. Olga, with her round belly and blue apron and curly short hair and milk-skin. Olga, girlfriend of the short, brusque black man who dresses for the disco and throws himself upon moving cars. What was his name? I can never remember these things, except for the boy became Spiderman, after that, and Michael J. Fox got throat cancer.
He's better now, I hear. In recovery, like he had hurt himself going skiing and is now propper up among flowers with a sling for his leg and a pretty nurse taking his temperature. Michael J. Fox has throat cancer and the world cares. And the world weeps. And the world shouts for joy when he is better, even though they knew along he would be because that's the only kind of movie he's ever in, Michael J. Fox. One with a happy ending, because he knows that's what his audience wants to see, that's all they can stomach, so he fought the cancer and the credits roll but life goes on.
Cancer isn't the kind of thing everyone thinks it is - something rare and awful like lightning. It's more like rain - slow, eroding, and inevitable. Our cells and our chromosomes are only so able to keep dividing you see, and once they wear down, you wear down, and that's how the luckiest of us die, after escaping disease and accidents and bodily harm and all other sorts of physical malfunctioning. We break down, some faster than others, because our cells were born with a sense of evolutionary purpose - to proliferate, to reproduce like gang-busters, whatever that means, like algae choking up a pond with their burnt orange, phlegmy expanse, still and deadly as Hephestus's net of gold. Entwining his wife, he never deserved her, and her lover in a delicate thread of revenge, hoisted up so their twisted limbs were exposed li
There was Olga, the beautiful waitress who I am now tempted to google because maybe she is famous now and I never knew, never realized. But I am embracing the pain, like that L.A. pyscho (therapist) tells his patients to do, embracing it like a giant cloud and letting Olga the waitress die off Hollywood-style, when the phone stops ringing and you hear that your former co-star, Michael J. Fox, has throat cancer because you watch E! News every evening, now, hoping to hear your name.
Olga, he said as she smiled with those eyes like a calf, like Io, Zeus's ill-fated tryst, one of many. Olga, with her round belly and blue apron and curly short hair and milk-skin. Olga, girlfriend of the short, brusque black man who dresses for the disco and throws himself upon moving cars. What was his name? I can never remember these things, except for the boy became Spiderman, after that, and Michael J. Fox got throat cancer.
He's better now, I hear. In recovery, like he had hurt himself going skiing and is now propper up among flowers with a sling for his leg and a pretty nurse taking his temperature. Michael J. Fox has throat cancer and the world cares. And the world weeps. And the world shouts for joy when he is better, even though they knew along he would be because that's the only kind of movie he's ever in, Michael J. Fox. One with a happy ending, because he knows that's what his audience wants to see, that's all they can stomach, so he fought the cancer and the credits roll but life goes on.
Cancer isn't the kind of thing everyone thinks it is - something rare and awful like lightning. It's more like rain - slow, eroding, and inevitable. Our cells and our chromosomes are only so able to keep dividing you see, and once they wear down, you wear down, and that's how the luckiest of us die, after escaping disease and accidents and bodily harm and all other sorts of physical malfunctioning. We break down, some faster than others, because our cells were born with a sense of evolutionary purpose - to proliferate, to reproduce like gang-busters, whatever that means, like algae choking up a pond with their burnt orange, phlegmy expanse, still and deadly as Hephestus's net of gold. Entwining his wife, he never deserved her, and her lover in a delicate thread of revenge, hoisted up so their twisted limbs were exposed li
