[lit-ideas] Sunday Twofer
- From: David Ritchie <profdritchie@xxxxxxxxx>
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Sun, 21 Oct 2012 11:03:36 -0700
When you were fired, we stayed up late into the night drinking Guinness and
whisky. Futurist fogeys plotting a cure for all they abhor, roasting prime fat
princes and their flunkies over coals, we were nearly undone at agenda item
three; there was a notable lack of ditches, also large-bosomed car whose warm
presences were designed to remind us of sudanese nurses we never actually had.
(See Manifesto for details). Ionesco came to our rescue. We made do with
fulmination.
I'm not doing the dishes as an excuse to listen to the new Tchaikovsky you
know, or because I have nothing better to do; I'm at this sink because though
nature abhors a vacuum, she's all diversity and inclusion with regard to Suds,
Scrubber and Mop LLP. Is it my turn to do them? Is this right? Is this fair?
Is this just? The Supreme Court will one day decide. As my hands warm to the
water, my heart opens and my mind drifts to a scene where I lie on a palliasse,
a straw mattress, whence I am fixing to fly. Like a patriarch from Thackeray,
I call my family to me. They whisper, awed by their understanding that even
the greatest of greats must have his sell-by date. In the feeble light of
guttering candles I mutter, "I bequeath my worldly goods." They draw closer.
My voice is not strong, "to you whose love has been mine..." There are audible
sighs. With feeble wave of gnarléd hand, I prepare to draw my final breath,
indicate that a single question holds me from my journey. They draw closer
yet. I wipe my mouth with handy prop, a carefully-ironed hankie, raise my head
the small height that remains with my power, smile, "And who will do the dishes
now?"
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
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