By Jason Bredle
Every few months my friend and I get together
to talk about "what we're doing" vis-à-vis
"the perceived goal of our dual attempt
to become masters of wordsmithing
in the face of insurmountable opposition."
This is what I'm doing, we say,
compared to this person we don't know
who does something similar
and is wildly more successful than us.
Powdered lips and lip powder
are quite the opposite
to anyone who's ever powdered their lips
or shaved flakes off of their lips
in that great and violent kitchen of our beings.
Is it true, we wonder. Are our life-fates locked
aside from random pratfall, victim
of crime or illness? In twenty years
you'll look back at this moment and go,
"whoa, weird," but you'll feel the same way
you feel now as you stare into the crisp,
dark city and say to yourself,
"whoa, weird." I'm just trying
to get through this like the rest of us,
you used to think, with dextrose, maltodextrin,
malic acid, calcium stearate, carnauba wax,
blue 2, red 40, yellow 5,
less than 2% corn syrup and possibly egg
on my tongue. Who knows what could happen
to my lips. They could be powdered, shaved,
or ripped completely off my face
in one, impressive motion.
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We're home for a couple of days from Pennsylvania to see our cats and get our work done. Paul's father is definitely improving -- his speech is much clearer than when we first saw him on Saturday morning -- but between that and his broken hip, which is still going to require several weeks of rehab, it's going to be a long recovery. Still, he's in amazingly good spirits.
We had lunch with Paul's mother and brother Jon, then went to pick up their father's things from the rehabilitation facility where he was being treated for the hip injury when they took him to the hospital for the suspected stroke. We got home on the late side, but were able to watch Elementary because of the post-golf delay on CBS. Now I'm too exhausted to type!
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