December 28, 2005

After our Christmas dinner, we fed the dog some turkey and its heavy head instantly filled with dreams. Turkey is a dangerous bird, full of lovely feathers and toxic chemicals. I know this because I had a turkey when I was growing up. One night, my father got the bird drunk and then slashed its throat in the cellar, and then the turkey was reduced to an armful of feathers and a plateful of meat. That was the first time I tasted non-existence.

As it dreamt with a bellyful of non-existence, Laura’s dog seemed content. So we let the dog slumber and went outside to walk in the night. It was snowing; large, wet snowflakes fell our eyelashes and lips, begging to be kissed away. In the cold wetness, everything seemed to connect: the wet trees … the wet streets … the wet souls full of longing. The night was full of shadows and lights. Droplets of moisture hang from wet branches, and when you looked at them closely they glittered madly.

And then I started saying crazy things again. Laura laughed as I told her about diurnal urns and other strange creatures of the night. I secretly suspect she’s crazy about me.