"Coming in from the cold can be as refreshing as anything else.
There isn’t then any need to desire the warmth of shelter. It’s already present, waiting to be plucked into reality by any one of a billion waiting cells of the skin.
And there’s no safer place in the world than the theatre. Never better to hide than in a house of fantasy all plumed in local style.
Greek-House, cheap, columns of cardboard painted by a sign maker to look like marble. The roof leaks, stains on the ceiling reak like rats in the attic.
Dust rides the candy packages that hover as ghosts about the shelves in the lobby.
Men come for fantasy here. They experience surrealism at four-fifty an hour while tied silently to stadium seats and leave invisibly, inhumanly through doors of polished glass.
No one can spot you here. We’re all to enthralled with expectation, waiting for that trick of magic to flare across the silver screen.”
"And I pat little Zoe’s head as she looks out from clear clubhouse windows on the rusty cage that’s being erected from plates in the ground.
‘But you gentlemen are members of the Anti-Writers Guild if I’m not mistaken?”
Clark listens to me with a discerning instinct that’s been bred into him by science and a mail-order catalogue about law enforcement he bought years ago.
His ears peak as the links of steel on display beneath us catch with a sinking clank into dreadful rails meant to hold them.
‘Oh? Is that what people are still calling us these days?
I’d say its passe,
but I wouldn’t want to sound too totally queer…
If you understand my meaning!”
And then he starts laughing like his throat’s lined with the truly houndish organs of a hyena.
And pinching the wool of his dark green sweater he says, ‘Nobody has ever understood us in the first place!”
"But she’s there, my Zoe, and she breaks the steam machine as my foggy eyes catch her splashing hose water onto her garden.
And the victories of my life crawl away into recesses of my mind, half swallowing defeat, half vowing restoration,
howling mad howling hate.
I close in on Zoe like a field researcher (Maybe in Senora) obscured by the woodshed and the sawhorse.
All the green things grow for her. All fruits and herbs and grasses, all little plants. And the big plants she waters with the same dedication, but they grow from a special care she gives them.
She turns the hose off and kicks her feet in the still water puddles that formed on the ground. Splash, Splash, she goes like a child now to a banyan tree and sits beneath it.
She puckers her lips to be kissed by passing early morning wind, bright solar wind that blows from the east, and Zoe digs into the earth with her nails.
Picks up a stick and examines it with enthusiasm,
whistles a little tune,
puts the stick back down on the ground and closes her eyes.”