If I ever write a book I’ll make up an obscure dedication.
“For Derek, for always knowing when to warm a teapot and when to man the barricades.”
Then I’ll be compelled to write a story titled Teapots And Barricades, but not mention Derek in it at all.
And another story about Derek that doesn’t mention barricades, or teapots.
I’m dedicated to fiction.
Parkstreet
If you’ve lost someone dear to you.
And I mean lost the dearest person to you in the whole world.
When I say I daydream of dying, reuniting, being two beams of pure energy and whooshing through the universe together, holding hands, even though we no longer have hands, and everything being beauty and wonder, you’ll know what I mean.
If you’ve lost the person you can’t imagine not talking with every day.
And I mean the only person you need to talk with because you’ve lost the only person.
You’ll know what I mean when I say we’ll whoosh until it feels right to no longer whoosh, then together become some other thing.
You know what I mean.
Parkstreet
For Jacqueline Elizabeth Scanlon, written through tears, twenty five years later.
The seer, the great visionary, the one who could see when others could not, looked up into the night sky.
“There”, he said, pointing, “those stars, forming a rectangle, I shall call that The Television.”
“What is . . . telly virgin master?”
“Television. It won’t come for thousands of years, then it will come, and all will know it. The stars foretell it.”
“And will it be beautiful like the stars master?”
“It will be. The people who will appear on it shall be called stars, but they will shine more brightly than the stars themselves.”
“Such wonders master.”
“Indeed, such wonders, enough to make the stars themselves seem dim and distant. The Television will come and all will know it. The stars foretell it.”
Parkstreet
