We agreed that she never knew me but that perhaps her brother did. 
 
"Whatever happened to you?" she asked, ostensibly for the brother whom I'd only pretended to recall in the interest of expediency. 
 
"Well," I told her, "I left for a very long time, put all of you far out of my mind, learned wonderful things and passed them along to students whom I now miss dearly." 
 
"So random!" she replied, shaking her head. "You're funny. Just like I pictured you to be."

"If I needed to dump a body," he said, "this is where I would do it." 
 
And so this is how he asks if I'll drive the next time. 

"My phone is really quite the attention whore," she complained. "I just really don't need that today." 
 
I'm sure this was her attempt to be funny but I saw no reason to encourage such nonsense. 
 
"It acts that way because you encourage it," I told her. "Ignore it for a few days and it will quiet down considerably." 
 
"It's a phone, not a child," she explained, somewhat miffed. 
 
"I realize that," I said. "Had it been your child I'd have recommended you kill the thing in its sleep." 
 
And so this is how she learns that I'm not funny too.

The students are back in town. 
 
Fall semester used to be my Spring. Anything was possible and everything was new. 
 
Now Fall semester means shuffling armies of disconnected iZombies and articulate drive-thru. 
 
Did I stop seeing magic around me or did the magic choose to move on as well? 

She wondered why I'd taken to long to respond to her email. 
 
"Why did you ignore my email?" was her exact wording. 
 
"I didn't ignore anything," I told her. "I just didn't feel like talking to you." 
 
She called me a liar. 
 
We'll have the same conversation next month.

She said "smoking is bad for you, mister." 
 
I told her she was correct in thinking so. 
 
"You know what else is bad for you?" I continued. 
 
"What else?" she wondered. 
 
"A couple of things," I explained. "One is talking to strangers. Another is the apparent inability to mind one's own business."

That wisdom is awarded through tragedy and sadness is yet another of life's wicked secrets. 
 
We're better for learning them but the lessons are bruising and unflinching. 
 
I'm sorry for your education but glad that you've found specks of truth in the muddy waters of mourning. 

"Your dog is fat," she stated. "This means that you are out of shape," she added with a smirk. 
 
I'd heard the witticism previously. 
 
"Good one," I replied. "I've never heard that one before." 
 
She beamed victoriously. 
 
"And I was sorry to hear about the death of your puppy," I continued. "This can't bode well for you can it?" 
 
We both knew that she'd never had a puppy yet she seemed to pick up on my subtle change of subject nonetheless. 

The manner in which I'd written her character had angered her somewhat and I did my best to explain that she needn't be put off. 
 
Firstly, she'd misunderstood her role's motivation. Secondly, she'd been warned sufficiently of just how little respect I pay to the silly lines that separate fact from madness. 
 
I suppose I shall endeavor to write her as more intelligent for the next go-around. Perhaps then we can fight about more pressing matters. 

I saw the guy with the really unfortunate helmet hair today and noticed him noticing the logo on my polo. 
 
I wonder if he's at home now writing about the guy in the really unfortunate polo who always looks him squarely in the hairline.  
 
Perhaps I flatter both of us. 

The bats are out early tonight and are flying closer than I've seen them do. 
 
They're not supposed to be here yet - not before the birds have finished singing for the day. 
 
Curious. 
 
Perhaps they fell behind last night for the storms. 

We went to the Dali exhibit at MOMA the other day. We lingered as we do and took in every second of every film showing on the three screens. The space was organized well and made me think that Dali himself would have shuddered in disapproval. 
 
Then we took in Hell Boy 2 and I found it to be a stunningly beautiful film. 
 
Really. 
 
Curious, that.

She popped in to tell me that they were all running down to the little Cuban place on Lexington for lunch. They would be leaving approximately ten minutes from then. 
 
I reminded her that I wasn't the biggest fan since an unfortunate incident involving goat and Styrofoam. I would need to pass this time. 
 
"Oh, I wasn't inviting you," she explained. "I just thought you might wonder where we'd all made off to." 
 
They are a delightful bunch after all. 
 

I'd always thought that I would appreciate the beauty of a tornado. 
 
And then I saw one in the distance and knew that I had been right. 
 
And then I saw one on top of me and knew that I should never wish such a monstrous tragedy on anyone.

I had a dream that I had died and that I was simply following someone else who looked a lot like me. 
 
When the time comes I hope that I make better decisions. 

Twenty years ago tonight I dined with Suzanne and Bertine at an out-of-the way hotel in Wettelsheim. We shared roasted wild boar's leg - the chef's specialty - and drank wine until none could say how the evening had ended.  
 
I recall the meal fondly as I observe the horribly disfigured ex-convict wrestling my daughter's turkey sandwich-to-be into saucy submission. 
 
The road from Wettelsheim has proven treacherous indeed. 

We'd agreed to let Dominique store the travel crate for her concert harp in our basement. She just didn't have the space for such a clumsy object at her apartment in the city. She would be off to Switzerland soon enough anyway. 
 
One evening Carole was over for drinks and spotted the monstrosity. 
 
Always the curious one, she inquired as to the crate. 
 
"It's a harp case," I explained curtly. 
 
"What's it for?" she wondered aloud. 
 
"Well, Carole," I told her, "when one is in the mood one puts their harp inside." 
 
"And what sort of mood would that be?" she asked. 
 
Such was the sort of question I'd come to expect from Carole and one of the few reasons why she will always remain among the dearest of friends whom I'll likely never see again. 
 
 

"And so the film 'Zombie Strippers' really IS about zombie strippers?" he asked in a matter-of-fact way as if to suggest that I may have had some insight. 
 
"I don't know," I assured him, "but you're no longer allowed to use the word 'film' around me. Do you understand?" 

"One more thing before we go," he added. "If you get cornered by an angry elephant, try to get on a slope and run for your life. Elephants cannot run downhill." 
 
The advice seemed useful although I had to wonder as to the likelihood of needing it. 
 
"So yours is a tried and true technique?" I asked him, somewhat hesitantly. 
 
"No-one has ever tested it to my knowledge," he admitted bluntly. "These are things that we tell visitors from the west and would all very much like to see if they work." 
 
I suppose I appreciated his candor. 
 

He said that he was a big fan of my work. 
 
I'd had him pegged as a lying fool long before that moment though.