The Dinghy

The Dinghy

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Sunday, June 27, 2004
 
Today, Vin Diesel and I began a most monotonous undertaking - that of re-soling my most pulchritudinous pair of cordovan loafers.

We began, wild-eyed and wielding unwieldy warhammers, pulverizing the very soles of the little pair of laceless loafers. He, a modern-day John Henry, and I, the mindless automaton created by man to oppose him, we stood face facing face, alternating the reigning of blows on the rubberized soles of the ridiculous shoes.

Like terrible twin megaliths, we spared no muscle, ligament, sinew or subdural hematoma in our attempts to prepare the pair of lowly loafers for the extremity of their imminent makeover (extreme as it was).

As hammers flew, flung heavy in the humid air, the monotony, too, grew. There seemed no end to the repeated repetitions. There seemed no break, no divergence in time that was past (nor of time in the future foreseeable).

Monotony, as monotony so very, very often does, when experienced in its purest states, stretched forward and back in temporality, like the undulating waves of the humpback whales. Hammerfall. Hammerfall. Hammerfall. Hammerfall.

The tools tilting (their heaviness now hounding us), the monotony delicious in its oppressiveness, and my own blisters ballooning to bulbous proportions, SUFFICIENCY - once latent – manifested itself.

Tired, and with rotator cuffs much in need of urgent care, we weaned our peens from their resounding poundings.

And as I stumbled back from the anvil, the driveway's undented surface meeting my suborbital ridges with great violence, and rainbows gyrating round my dilating pupils, I could swear that they – those loafers, once cordovan - glowed, almost as if of gold. Gold!

Gold! Then blackness.

Love yourself.

Goodbye forever.

That is all.

Thank you for your time.

Etc.


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