Aliens of Affection by Padgett Powell

Author:Padgett Powell [Powell, Padgett]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781480441606
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Stroke

A WOMAN COMES AT me armed with a weapon, her mouth, her clothes. The weapon is indistinct, mouth open, clothes off. Something is coming out of her mouth. It will hurt. The weapon is vague and bright—not nickel-plated, more accurate to say just nickel plating. It is bright essence of weapon, and not the true weapon. The true dark harm is in the mouth, the clothes removed. The oglalasioux jumble of syllables to slur on me, the jungle of hot flesh to be withdrawn once I’m listening, the platter of blind regret waltzing away with her victory. O dogs of solitude, lizards of horniness, we must prepare ourselves for Armageddon. If we only knew what that word meant. Islets of Langerhans is more like it. Prepare for that, boys. Call your mother and tell her flowers are on the way but she’s seen the last of you and your practiced civility, you are going to the island. No man is an island is disputable. No woman is on it is not. I bid you adieu, Mr. Donne.

Then these dudes attack, with their women balled up at their sides. Then some more then. Now what?

This: Duwop Nura Buddy, a dog, was awalkin down the street singin duwah diddie diddie dum diddie day. I ignored him. I do not need a dog, let alone another dog.

I want to write a book sinful tradeout minnow (stroke) (related) (-) (stroke-related). A young man can have one. (Stroke.) Even so, he can still cross his t’s and dot his i’s, and cross his eyes (smile) unless they (antecedent: eyes, so you don’t have to guess) are permanently crossed by the stroke. I cannot read my bank statements. Fortunately there is no money in the accounts or I would be in trouble. All life is trouble, degrees thereof. All flesh is sloughing, degrees thereof. All metal is rusting. All cheese going bad, or hard. All dogs leaving you, or refusing to. All women balling up into fists. All islands being washed by neaps and ebbs of loneliness. Not solitude, that is $100/hour loneliness, and islands do not pay $100/hour. Neap and ebb and spring, low and lower and lowest—who, my pretty, is the lowest tide of all? Out there run aground on the ebb, you can click together your red goody two-shoes until the cows come compounding interest.

I am silly. I am a quitter, also. These are the twin tines of the actual devil’s fork. These days you cannot find well-made toys unless you are prepared to spend a fortune, a fact or surmise or opining that I tender in irrelevant position to my argument about silliness and quitting. On silliness and quitting: you can induce any roomful of folk you collect to volunteer by show of raised hands who among them has beat his child, gone queer, voted Republican, voted Democrat, voted Communist, slept with his daughter, laughed at Jerry Lewis, gambled away the trailer payment, flushed the puppies down the toilet, financed many abortions,

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