.Practical Chemistry. Othu was mildly blending the menthol with the aspartame. Together they fizz up rich to the breakwater of the tines hi-ball. Another bad cocktail drawn from perspiration has at least prompted two alkaline organics to mingle. Awkwardly at first it goes but eventually the sense is made and the common bond is the way they react to water. Once that is pulled together the talk gets down to warmth and entropy, but just when they were getting to bonding, Othu had the strength to drink because he had an entire cabinet in place of a chemistry set. All along the lines of practical chemistry he wanted to exclaim to someone. And he killed a good conversation riding there.
The mail is getting tired in his lap.
He is wearing pants and shirts and socks and shoes. He is thinking channel 33 (in disguise). He has driven the daisies from Bakersfield to Blacksburg only to be turned around with the wrong genetic string tied to his van. He has eyes and ears and black hairs and 10 fingers. He hasn’t noticed his feet since the last time he cut his nails.
It is practical chemistry, chemistry for people that deflects the connections people make between his drinking and his depression. They talk about his depression as a spec of fact when in fact Othu is without it. He is without it among many other its’ that tend to mingle in his drink and in the white space between his hand and his soup bowl. And when the mail waits impersonally in the box to alert him of monster savings in monster stores with Gianishu lots, he makes sure the registration is on. No more mind is spent until the house gets cold enough to be warmed by the heat of burning postcards.
Where is the love was a song playing in the kitchen from the radio that was giving him his marine forecast. Othu filters out wind, surf and stream to focus in on tide. High-tide 9:30 P.M. perfect. He had this soil he suspected the lingcod would be fond of.
The end of the peel...
... draw blood from a sketch pad
