Another hot day. House of acquaintances. Parents of eldest daughter’s hot friend in fact. They show us their pool. Part of my wife’s secret campaign to get my okay for a pool upgrade. I do a belly flop, tell my kid, That was my first belly flop in — do the math in my head — thirty years.
Gah.
Sitting around a table on their terrace later on, eating apples from their tree, and currant juice from their currants, admiring their ornamental squash plant. Plant of ornamental squash, whatever. Eating banana cake, very popular with the wasps this season as well.
They have other visitors, a woman and her blind friend, guy thirty five or forty. Someone says Internet, he talks about accessible technologies, interesting. Not as interesting as the wasp walking laps around the rim of his drinking glass, dipping down now and then to take a nip of currant juice.
Around and around, as we watch in silence.
He totally knew it was there, and was just fucking with you. I betcha $10.
There’s a great article by Oliver Sacks in a recent New Yorker on blindness and enhanced modes of consciousness (basically).
I’m having a 33rd Birthday party this weekend. I would have invited you, but I’m *pretty sure* you’re not on this continent then. You’re not, right? So I was about 3 when you had you second-to-last belly flop – and I feel old.
At least: I did until I read that.
So thank you from the bottom of my Time-to-get-Messianic-Feeling, um, Soul.
This made me think about Carver’s story, “Cathedral” again. Thanks.
But also about how I can’t swim. Oh yeah pal, thanks a lot.
Do me a favor Peggy, and learn to swim.
And thanks, I’m reading Cathedral right now.