There are a lot of things true love is, and here are just two of them:
True love is sending your exhausted husband home from the hospital overnight because there’s no sense in both of you going without sleep, and never regretting it during the long, lonely, sleepless night.
And true love is sitting in that rumpled hospital bed in the faint light of morning, hours before he could possibly be planning to return, hearing distant footsteps two corridors away, and knowing those are his footsteps, coming straight to your room.
[image from The Toast]
He could not vary the length of his utterance and he could not cow himself to the laws of punctuating or naming for the ease of some imagined imaginary reader. It was cold in the writers room and he would make no fire. No fire to warm his cold hands where the skin cracked and bled against the typewriter keys, no fire to warm his heart to any but the white man who stood all but nameless at the center of his story, a pole on which the gaunt remnants of a person draped in the sepulchral twilight as the sun went down. Went down for the last time maybe, he didnt know.
I like big muscles and red corpuscles
I like a beautiful hunk o’ man
[Dorothy Shaw (Jane Russell) and nameless Olympian from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes number "Ain't There Anyone Here For Love?"]
You are the scarf-wearer. You have always been the scarf-wearer.
Double-checking a Walt Whitman quote, I type into Google “I contain m-“; Google autofills “-arshmallows.” Yup, that checks out.
Do I chocolate-coat myself?
Very well then I chocolate-coat myself,
(I am large, I contain marshmallows.)
My latest trips down the wiki-hole:
It’s a straight line from Dazed and Confused to the Austin moon towers to the Servant Girl Annihilator.
And, though I don’t remember precisely the path, it’s no surprise that I refreshed my memory of the dancing plague that afflicted 16th century Strasbourg.
But I still don’t remember what process led me to the Dugong hypothesis for the origin of the word tabernacle.