Flavigula

Here lies Martes Flavigula, eternally beneath the splintered earth.


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One who has the final leg severed suffers - a bit
Displacement
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Sat, 23 Nov, 2013 04.07 UTC

I feel I have used the word bleary much too often in my life. Fuck it, I shall use it again. I am bleary. International travel does that even to a small, skilled pine marten. I sit in a bar blearily at the moment in Montreal. The aeroport. So sexy. My memories of the last time passing through Canada on the way to the grand ol’ USA bids me calm to this time. I was detained for endless hours. Endless? Well, hyperbole is a perfect matter for this moment. Ugg. Anyhow, I skated unfaltering through this time.

Displacement has not really occured to me recently, but I am feeling a shadow of it now. There is the attractive woman in a custom hat sitting at the bar, now leaving to join an insecure American boy. Five television screen blare different greetings in two languages without restraint. I down a litre of beer. Not now, but during this whole process. I am utterly convinced that I dislike people.

Many exceptions flood my mind. They are of late. Boston brought a few, but they have grown stale and faded. Perhaps that is not true for Jeremy. We shall see. Madis and Asun (as well as Maribel) will linger for the rest of my days, I am happy (afraid) to say. The personality of people slink around me. The guests at bars, pretentious, ordering the driest wine in the house and then asking for Chardonnay. Hm. I’m not an expert, but I know she is not versed in this trade.

The extrovert at the table to my left has a voice which cuts through all others around him. His companions are speaking the same volume of words that he is, but I can only understand his. The angle of his mouth to my ear is not even very significant. I shy away from thinking of James. I don’t want to think of James. I want to like James.

Possibly the topic for this entry should be replacement instead of displacement since I am going back, for a short time, to Boston. I’m not sure what this weekend shall bring, but I find myself not caring. By this time next week, I shall be in Texas. Or, at least, with (or without?) Lisa in Nashville. Change is upon me and Logrono will find me very soon. I look forward to it. I shall do my best to encourage Christian to visit, though I should not hold my breath. He only visits friends when it is to his advantage. I suppose that is up to his extroverted personality. So it goes. DIE THE FLAME DEATH.

Along with martens, goulish goats and the rippling fen -
these writings 1993-2023 by Bob Murry Shelton are licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 4.0

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